Bound Together by Fragile Dreams, Prev Untitled
by Cima1305
Summary: CONTAINS SLASH and dark themes! a VERY AU story based on movies and books. what if the four pevensies were native narnians, in a time when all of Narnia was under the oppressive rule of the Telmarines? Peter/Caspian, Peter/Miraz
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: This is totally AU from the books and movies, yet still maintains many elements from both, so sorry if this is confusing or weird.

Chapter 1

It had been ten generations since the Telmarines have invaded Narnia. Over two hundred years since they exterminated, or nearly so, all of the beasts and tree-spirits. Those that had not been killed in the great battles between Telmar and Narnia were captured and killed for sport. Any that had tried to escape were hunted, the Dwarves, Centaurs, Satyrs, Fauns, any beast or bird that uttered the language of men. The trees that housed the Dryads were cut down for lumber.

Only the humans, the precious few remaining of the Old Narnians, were allowed to survive. But they were treated as no better than slaves, subject to the rule of the Telmarine kings, forced to earn their living with back-breaking labor.

And now, it was Miraz who sat on the Telmarine throne, first of that name. For the past centuries, Miraz's ancestors have worked to blot out the existence of the "Old Narnians." So thorough had been the Telmarines in the scourging of the land that even tales of talking beasts and mystical creatures became whispered rumors, lost in the wind. Yet, these rumors, and perhaps more, still remained everlastingly strong.

……………………………………………………………………………………

"Peter! Peter, wake up!" the shrill voice of his youngest sister pierced the dreams of the sleeping teenager.

"What is it," he mumbled, rubbing at his face. He was annoyed that he was awoken from the escape that was sleep, now painfully reminded how lumpy his bed was and how thin the blankets were.

"It's _them_," Lucy said, and Peter realized how frightened her voice rang in the dark. He could barely make out her shape next to his bed but he could tell that she was trembling. "Telmarine soldiers. They're back!"

Instantly, Peter was awake. Sitting up, he gently put his hands on her small shoulders to calm her.

"It's alright, Lucy," he whispered. He became aware of the noises, shouts and heavy footfalls, coming from outside the small house they lived in. He could see many torch lights flickering and waving about from the window.

"Go to your room," he told her quickly. "Lock the door and don't come out. Close the windows and get into bed. _Don't come out_, do you hear me, Lucy?"

When she would not stop shaking, he pulled her skinny frame into his arms and pressed a kiss to her hair, trying to reassure her. She was crying, afraid.

"I wish Mother was here," she whimpered, her small hands clutching at Peter's worn nightshirt.

"Shh, it's alright, it's alright, Darling," Peter whispered, gently running his hands over her back and frantically trying to calm his sister while his own heart was pounding in a wild panic as the shouting grew louder outside. His mind tried to work out what to do. He knew that the village could not hope to fight the soldiers off, not after the last raid. What did they want?

"Look, Lucy, you're going to go up to your bed and lie down. Go to sleep – you'll have Thomas-Bear with you, right? – and you'll wake up in the morning, and everything will be fine. I'll be down in the kitchen making you breakfast, and everything will be alright, I _promise_."

Finally, Lucy nodded and pulled away. "Good girl," Peter said, and gave her a little push towards the door. She ran out, the pink of her dressing-gown fluttering behind her. As soon as she was gone, Peter turned to the other occupant of his bed, Edmund. Amazingly, his little brother had not yet awakened through all the noise. The boy could sleep through an earthquake.

Peter shook him awake. "Edmund!" he whispered fiercely.

"What?" came the sleepy whine of the 12-year-old.

"Telmarine soldiers! They're here!" said Peter, just as a loud pounding on the door sounded, making both of them jump. Raucous yelling, tinged with the heavy Telmarine accent could be heard, demanding and angry. Eyes wide, Edmund froze with fear while Peter sprang up out of bed. The older boy yanked on his trousers and thrust his feet into boots.

"I want you to stay here," Peter said sternly to Edmund, while tucking in his nightshirt. "Lock the door behind me. Put a chair up against it. Close and bar the windows and don't open them until I get back."

"I'm coming with you!" said Edmund, snapping out of his stupor, and he jumped out of bed as well.

"No!" said Peter, his voice tense and clipped. He grabbed the smaller boy and gave him an angry little shake. "Do as you're told, Edmund!" and he ran out of the room with Edmund stubbornly trotting after him.

"I'm not staying behind!" yelled Edmund indignantly, following Peter to the parlor. Peter just had time to grab his father's sword off the mantel and strap it to his waist when the door was kicked in with a terrific smash. The two brothers stilled, frightened, as three armored Telmarine men barged into the room.

"Ill-mannered peasants!" one of them snarled, pointing a crossbow at them. "Did you not hear us knocking!"

"We have done nothing wrong," Peter said bravely, staring right at them and trying not to let his voice quiver. He stepped in front of his brother, shielding him. "Please, leave our home. We have no valuables to give you."

"Hold your tongue, boy!" another one snapped. He grabbed Peter roughly by the arm and yanked him towards the door. "You will come with us. You two," he barked at the other men, "take the other one."

"Stop!" yelled Peter, twisting in the soldier's grip. He saw the other two Telmarines grab hold of a struggling Edmund. "He's my little brother. He's just a kid! He hasn't done anything wrong, sir, please! Let him be!"

Peter grunted as the one holding him grabbed his collar and jerked him up, nose-to-nose with the soldier. He gulped and fought his panicky breathing and kept his face unflinching as he was rudely scrutinized by the Telmarine.

After a few moments, the soldier holding Peter smiled a sneering smile. "I know you," he said in a nasty voice. "Or rather, I knew your father. _Pevensie_."

The soldier laughed as Peter's jaw twitched at the mention of his father. "He was a foolish man, your father. Fought, when he should have yielded. And he died. Don't be stupid like your old man, boy, and you may yet live."

"Don't talk about my father!" Peter growled, before he could stop himself, his fists clenching at his sides.

The soldier chuckled cruelly. "And I know your dark-haired sister," he drawled, watching with amusement as Peter's face went pale.

"Susan?" gasped Peter.

The soldier merely laughed again and shoved Peter out the door so that he almost fell. "Leave the other one!" he called to his men. "We have no need for him yet."

"No! Where are you taking him, you brutes?" Peter could hear Edmund yell from inside the house.

"Stay inside, Edmund! For my sake, just _stay inside_!" Peter yelled behind him as the other two men came and hauled him up by the arms, dragging him off to the village square.

The cold of the early winter night hit Peter like a punch and he immediately started shivering, as he was only wearing his thin nightshirt. The soldiers walked him, none too gently, to where Peter could see dozens of other families also being dragged out of their homes. He saw men and women, youths and girls the same age as he, all huddled together at the town center. He was made to join them and they were held at sword point.

Trembling, Peter looked around and saw armed men everywhere, on horseback and on foot. He gripped the hilt of the sword at his belt, but knew that it would be foolishness to try to draw it. He would be dead in an instant, along with his family.

The sobbing and frightened clamoring of the crowd went silent as an arrogant Telmarine official rode forward on his stallion. He gave a drawn-out, disdainful look over the assembled people.

"What do you want?!" shouted a man, breaking the silence. The townspeople immediately began shouting, cursing and shaking their fists at the man on horseback. "Leave our village in peace!" cried an old woman. "We have give you horses, sheep, swine! We have give you grain and milk! What more would your king take from us?!"

"Silence!" shouted the official, and the soldiers behind him raised their crossbows at the people. Immediately, the din quieted and angry faces were replaced by ones of fear.

Smirking haughtily, the official raised a scroll and began to read. "By the decree of his Majesty, King Miraz, the head of each household in each Narnian village will be required to give up two members, young and of good health. They will be given the privilege of laboring for our gracious King, taking part of building a newer and better nation. Their work will benefit our country and be remembered in its days of glory. Resistance will be punished. Long Live the King!"

A shocked silence descended over the town as the herald finished speaking, the only sound being the crackling of torchlight and the nickering of horses.

"You would take our children from us," came the low gasp of the man that spoke before. "You would make them into slaves!"

"Murderers!" screeched another. "You have taken our homes, our lives, our land, and now you would tear the remnants of our families apart!"

"_Narnians_," spat the official, disgust in his voice. "Ill-bred, ungrateful, and ignorant. Is it not time you all paid the king back for his kindness? For letting you live on his land? We will have our prisoners, yes, we will drag your children from their beds if you do not give them up willingly!"

Peter felt a fury unlike he had ever experienced before build up in his stomach. He did not even feel his own hand moving as his sword flew out of its sheath, pointed menacingly at the Telmarine who had made the decree. He did not recognize his own voice, guttural and laden with rage.

"Try and take them, then." As if his words were the spark that started the fire, all pandemonium proceeded to break loose.

Like water bursting from a dam, with a mighty roar, the villagers surged against their captors, screaming and fighting. Arrows flew through the air, killing and maiming, yet the townspeople attacked back with such a ferocity only borne of having their children threatened. Soldiers were dragged off of their horses and bludgeoned. Lances and crossbows became useless at close distance.

Peter was consumed by battle-lust as joined the frenzy with a shout, rage and the fierce protectiveness for his loved ones overwhelming him.

Yet, such a fight, though valiant, was doomed to be lost. Peter rained down blows upon any Telmarine that got close to him, slashing and hacking. But he stopped and watched in horror as he saw more and more soldiers converge upon the small town. The townspeople were being slain like livestock and the soldiers were now attacking their homes as the violence escalated. Children and the elderly were being dragged out of their houses. The soldiers were throwing their torches at the cottages and barns, burning and pillaging.

Letting out a wordless cry of horror, Peter saw Edmund and Lucy being dragged out of their home still in their nightclothes, fighting and screaming. Wildly, Peter beat off a Telmarine that was attacking him and ran for his siblings.

In a fit of rage, he stabbed at the Telmarine that held Edmund, saw the man drop. Barely pausing, Peter brought his sword down with all his might at the arm which gripped a sobbing Lucy by the hair. A scream and a splash of blood were all that registered in his mind as he swung the sword again, in a horizontal arc, decapitating the soldier.

As his sister started to collapse, Peter grabbed her and lifted her up. He looked around him and all he saw was destruction and death. Screams of people and animals filled the air. In his young life, he had not seen so much carnage since he was a child, when the Telmarines had attacked the first time. The fire had glinted off of blood-stained metal the same way as it did now, and Peter felt his sword-arm grow slack. His lungs were hurting.

_Flame and steel. Fire and sword_. _Father _dying. They would die, all of them, by the fire or by the sword. There was no valor in such slaughter, only the cacophony of screams and bellows. Letting out a breath of defeat, Peter made his choice.

"STOP!" he cried to anyone that would hear him. "Stop! Stop!"

As a group of horsed soldiers charged towards him, he did nothing but shield his two siblings with his body. He dropped his sword to the ground and fell on his knees, his arms spread wide in a sign of surrender.

A horse reared, screaming its discontent, as the rider pulled the animal just short of crushing Peter with its hooves.

"Too cowardly to fight, boy?" the men sneered at him.

"Take me," Peter said, his voice cracking yet unwavering in his courage. "Take me as your prisoner, and your king shall have his slave. Leave them be, I beg you!"

They laughed at him, the noise harsh among the cries of the dying. So loud.

"What makes you think the king would want just one measly youth? His decree called for two from each household."

"They are no good to you dead! I will go with you willingly." Peter cried, firmly shoving his wriggling brother behind his back when Edmund tried to leap out at the soldiers. The Telmarine on the horse stared at the blond boy, barely a man. The weight of the world upon his shoulders, so young. Eyes so blue, a panting mouth, red with exertion and tinged with flecks of red. There was a long, draw out moment, as Glozelle stared at Peter, appraising him.

"So be it," said the bearded horseman, who was their leader and general. At his signal, the soldiers stopped their attacking. The killing and screaming, muted.

Two men came and grabbed Peter from where he knelt, hauling him to his feet and presenting him to their general. So young, so young, the general thought, but the boy has the courage of a king. He dismounted and stepped closer to the prisoner. _So fair_, he mused, and brought a gloved hand up to the panting boy's cheek, not quite touching him, impressed when the boy did not flinch away.

"Let me say goodbye," said Peter, quietly but firmly as he looked straight into the general's eyes. The soldiers laughed mockingly and made to hit him for his impertinence, but the general silenced them with a raised hand.

"Let the boy say goodbye to his family."

They released Peter and he turned to Edmund and Lucy. Picking up his father's sword from where it lay in the dust, he presented it to his younger brother.

"This is yours now, Edmund," he said and clasped the younger boy's shoulder.

"Don't do this, Peter," wept the younger boy. "We can fight them! Don't give in like this!"

"I'm sorry, Ed. So sorry," whispered Peter and took his brother into an embrace. But the younger boy pulled away, tears of betrayal hurt in his dark eyes.

"You're leaving us!" hissed Edmund angrily. "Just like Mother and Father! Just like Susan!"

Ignoring his brother's words, though they tore at his heart, Peter knelt before Lucy. She ran into his arms, wailing into his chest. "I'm so sorry, Darling," Peter said, his voice heavy with tears. "Be a big girl for me?"

They grabbed his arms and dragged him away before he could say anything else. They bound his hands with coarse ropes and made him walk while tethered to one of their horses. As he walked away from the only life he knew, Peter looked back over his shoulder and saw the frightened, huddled masses of the townspeople, his friends and his family. Their pain, his pain. And he knew, that whatever coming hardships he would have to endure would be worth it, to see them live. Those that died would get a burial instead of being fed to the soldiers' hounds. The boy turned his head and continued walking, bound, towards his new, uncertain life.

Notes: Thank you so much for reading! Please please review and let me know what you think. Susan's absence will be explained later, and Caspian makes an appearance very soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: This is totally AU from the books and movies, yet still maintains many elements from both, so sorry if this is confusing or weird.

Also, thanks to all the kind people who read my story and took the time to review! You have no idea how happy you make me.

WARNINGS: this story contains slash as well as several dark themes, such as non-consensual sex, violence, slavery, etc.

Chapter 2

"He is not a man, but a great lion, king of all the wood and son of the Emperor Beyond the Sea. But mostly, the Deep Magic resides within him, and he is the embodiment of it."

"Deep magic? How do you mean?" Caspian wondered, his long fingers idly tracing over the drawing of a lion's golden head on a red background. A book of Narnian tales, which would be prohibited if his uncle ever found it out.

"What the Narnians called the Deep Magic," said Professor Cornelius, "is an ancient power that governs each and every one of us. A power that determines what is right and wrong."

"And this…Aslan, he is the one who determines what is good or bad? The Narnians believe this?"

The Professor did not answer at once, but looked at Caspian for a few moments through his spectacles. "What do _you_ believe, my prince? What is right or wrong, according to you?"

Caspian sighed thoughtfully, brushing his hand through his long dark tresses, as was his wont when he was thinking. He gazed distractedly up at the sky, letting the sun warm his face.

Student and teacher were having a lesson out of doors, enjoying the last vestiges of the still-warm early winter before the snows and rains came. They were sitting at a table, set up for their lesson with a serving maid waiting attentively, ready to fill their cups with the sweet watered-down wine.

Noting her presence, Caspian gestured her over and she took the flagon, poured the liquid into his goblet.

"Righteousness," said the prince watching the wine slosh gently as he swirled his cup, "is following the Telmarine law. Loyalty to the king, my uncle."

"And that law, the word of your uncle, is the ultimate judge between right and wrong? You believe this, my prince?"

Caspian frowned. "Why, of course, Dr. Cornelius. Without law and order to govern our people, how can the Telmarines hope live in peace and harmony?"

"Of course, of course, my prince," said Cornelius placating. "It is ever my belief that a good ruler should wish what is best for his people."

Caspian went back to studying the book that lay in front of him. The golden lion, with his open maw, stared up at him from the vellum page.

"Is that why the Old Narnians, the Resistance, I mean, call themselves the Lion's Army?" he asked quietly. "Because they believe that they fight for Aslan? For righteousness?"

Cornelius didn't answer. The Resistance was a subject of great taboo within castle walls, as Miraz did not like to hear about the small group of Narnian rebels that was the cause of more than just a few raids and skirmishes. The Resistance had grown stronger as of late, as Miraz's rule became more tyrannical.

"That is not a question you should be asking, my prince. Not in your uncle's house," said the Professor.

"Sorry," replied Caspian, giving a light laugh, trying to brush off the seriousness of the situation. "Would you tell me about the Battle of Beruna again?"

"Of course," said Cornelius with a relieved smile, and he opened another tome that lay on the table, brushing through the pages.

They talked easily for awhile as the afternoon sun moved through they sky. Then, quit unexpected, a group of soldiers walked past where they were sitting, and they were leading a procession of slaves. Caspian raised his head to look at them, and his words caught in his throat. Men and women, young and old, each of them shackled with heavy iron chains. They all looked weary, as if they had been forced to march for days without rest. Most of them looked half-starved.

As they passed, silent and suffering, the prince could feel their eyes upon him. Their weary, weary eyes, scrutinizing every inch of his velvet robes, his clean face, his groomed hair. The poor and tired, staring at the rich and healthy. The starving and ill-used, studying the royal and well cared-for. Caspian felt an uncomfortable clenching in his stomach as he realized that these slaves, these people, forced from their homes and made to labor, were staring at him, well-dressed and healthy, with something akin to loathing. Narnians.

_A good ruler should wish what is best for his people_.

Some small discomfort, either mental or physical, caused a tremor to run through his hand and the goblet slipped from Caspian's fingers. It dropped onto the stone pavement of the courtyard, with a clang that seemed too loud, spilling its contents while rolling away from him. Fortune carried the errant utensil towards the grim procession and the gilt cup stopped at the feet of one of the prisoners.

The line stopped moving as one of the guards dismounted from his horse. The nasty-looking sergeant, one whose face was full of sadistic pride, walked up to the person whose feet were now next to the fallen goblet.

With a cuff to the youth's head, the soldier said roughly, "His majesty has dropped his cup. Pick it up and fetch it to him, _slave_."

Not one of the people in the procession breathed a word, as the blond, blue-eyed boy looked up at the soldier who spoke. Caspian, himself, was frozen in his seat, staring at the prisoner and his obviously Narnian features. _So fair_.

The youth, his actions inhibited by his clanking chains, stooped down. With fingers that seemed frozen stiff with cold, he clutched the goblet and lifted it. The soldier gave the boy a shove that nearly sent him to his knees.

"His majesty has spilled his drink. Refill it!" said the sergeant, delighting at the youth's humiliation.

With no more than a soft groan, the boy staggered towards where Caspian was sitting, and Caspian saw that his pale hands were red, scratched, and bruised, and his wrists were caked with dried blood underneath the cruel shackles.

"Fill the cup!" said the soldier, and gave the boys' legs a flick with his riding crop.

With hands that trembled from pain and cold, the boy set the goblet down on Caspian's table, where the prince and the teacher sat speechless. He gripped the heavy wine flagon with his raw, bleeding hands, and tilted it so that the red liquid inside spilled, in jerking splashes, into the gilt cup.

Caspian, his eyes transfixed on the suffering creature, saw that the boy's entire body was trembling and his jaw was clenched. _So cold, he must be_.

The prince felt his breath catch when the boy faced him, hands wrapped around the now-full goblet. And Caspian was shocked, when the eyes that seemed so dead and gray a moment ago, came alive with blue fire as soon as they rested on his person. Ferocity, rage, humiliation, pain, _defiance_, and such _disgust_ blazed in those impossibly azure orbs, so focused on Caspian that the prince thought he would burn to ashes just from that stare.

For a moment, Caspian felt that it was himself who was in rags, hands bound and shackled, a slave, and that it was the golden-haired boy who was the prince, so small did he feel under such a gaze.

Dumbly, Caspian moved as if to take the goblet from the boy's hands, but instead, the boy drew back and dashed the wine into his face. Caspian reeled back, gasping and knocked his seat over. As he shook the sickeningly sweet liquid from his eyes, the prince heard the boy hiss in a low voice, "Your drink, _prince_," mocking and full of disdain.

In the next instant, the guard had rushed forward and struck the slave to the ground, beating at his body with his riding crop. The soldier was screaming obscenities at the boy, trying to drag him back, away from Caspian, but the boy surged forward and spat at the prince, hatred in his eyes.

"Insolent little thing!" raged the sergeant, and drew a dagger while pinning the slave boy to the ground with a booted foot. "I should gut you and leave your entrails for the crows!" and he raised the blade menacingly.

The youth glared up at the soldier from where he laid, eyes still bright, _still_ defiant and Caspian was enthralled by him, such a specimen. Should he not be pleading for his life now? Should he not be begging, begging to live?

As the sergeant made to bring down the dagger on the boy's unprotected torso, Caspian gasped and made to halt the act, but it was the general, Glozelle, whose sharp voice saved the boy.

"Stop!" the general demanded, and he too dismounted from his horse. "He is the king's prisoner and only the king can order his death. You will do well to remember whose orders you follow, Sergeant. Now, let him up."

"He insulted our prince!" said the sergeant, petulant and complaining, pointing a gauntleted finger at Caspian, as if demanding the prince support his words.

"It's just a bit of wine," said Caspian hastily, surprised at how unsteady his own voice was. "Let him up, good sir."

The sergeant looked at him in angry disbelief, as if cheated out of his kill. But Caspian was looking at the boy, who was now staring up at him in astonishment and confusion. _So fair, so fair_, the prince thought and could not take his eyes from the slave's blue ones. _So brave, so fair. What he must have thought of me, to do such a brave, foolish thing._ Wine was dripping into the collar of his velvet robes but Caspian did not even notice.

Glozelle cleared his throat, stopping the indignant tirade of the sergeant. "Well, you heard his majesty. Let the boy up."

With a frustrated growl, the sergeant lifted his foot off the boy's chest, who coughed painfully. He hauled the youth up roughly and shoved him back into the line. As the procession of slaves continued, the boy turned to look at Caspian with a look that was no longer full of hatred, and Caspian stared back dazedly, not even noticing Dr. Cornelius who was talking and now hastily wiping at the prince's face and neck with a handkerchief.

…………………………………………………..

Peter was put right to work, despite the injuries he received at the hands of the soldier. He knew it had been extremely foolish, pulling a stunt like that with the prince but oh, how it had fired his blood to see the prince in his fine robes sitting there so casually while _people_, enslaved and suffering, passed right by him. The heir to the throne, Miraz's brat.

He did not expect the prince to spare his life, and that left him more confused than ever.

Still, the bruises stung terribly as he was made to carry and stack bricks. With only a thin pair of protective gloves, he had to remove the bricks, red-hot, from the kiln and haul them to the cooling stack.

He gasped in pain when he first started, but by the third brick, the pain in his back and arms had blotted out the dull burn in his hands. He soon learned to grip the heavy block with his forearms, letting his muscles bear the weight. Reach into the oven, grip the brick, draw it out, heave it to the stack. If he was slow, a quick jab with the whip taught him to be faster.

At first, he thought. Thought of Lucy and Edmund and whether they were well. Thought of his mother and father, thought of the life he left behind. He thought of his fears and doubts, whether he would be able to endure this life of servitude. He thought of the prince. After the tenth brick that he had carried, red scorch marks decorating his skin, sweat dripping from his hair, he ceased to think. There was nothing but the quiet roar of the fire beneath the kiln, the smoke blowing in to his face, the coarse roughness of the brick, bigger than his head, the awful ache in his muscles, and the grunting and gasping of dozens of people like him, prisoners, carrying bricks.

Often, he thought he felt a pair of dark eyes on him, looking at him, but whenever he turned to the windows of the castle overlooking the construction site, there was no one there.

That night, he dreamt. He had been too tired to take much notice of the dark, dank room he and a dozen other men were to sleep in. He had been too tired to talk to the aging fellow that lay next to him, on the same rough pallet. He had simply fallen, hard and fast, into the dream of a far greener country.

He thought he was in front of a great garden, but his way was barred by a golden gate. She stood before the gates, his sister, Susan, yet she was not Susan but someone far older, nobler.

Her hair, raven black, was unbound, falling down her back like an inky waterfall. Her eyes, icy blue, stared into his and he thought she had stared into his very soul. A crown of golden flowers adorned her head, and in her hands, she held a cup. It was bone-white like ivory, and full of flames, red and flickering.

The queen, for that was what she was, held out the ivory cup and Peter tried to take it, but it stung his hands. In the distance, he thought he heard the roar of a lion, thunderous yet muted at the same time.

Then, the dream changed and he was lying in a field, on emerald-green grass. There was a dark-haired person lying next to him, close to his body, as if they were lovers. He thought it might be Susan again, but the person turned his face and it was the prince, dark and beautiful with eyes that were almost black.

Autumn leaves were falling around them like handfuls of fire, red and gold. They drifted to the ground but melted into smoke when they touched the grass. The Telmarine prince was speaking, moving his mouth, but Peter could not understand. He tried to touch him and found he could not move. He tried to ask him what his name was, and found he could not speak.

There was a sudden pain in his side and he heard someone shouting. He was rudely awoken by the Telmarine guard kicking him again.

"Get up, you lazy dog! It's nearly dawn and there's work to be done!"

The old man next to him, who had already gotten up and dressed, gave Peter a concerned look as the boy coughed violently and struggled to his feet.

……………………………………………………

The Queen Prunaprismia was no longer seen in court, as she was with child. She spent her days, as was the custom for pregnant women, cloistered in her private chambers. Her husband did not visit her, and would not until the baby was delivered.

Yet, Miraz still had the needs of a man and the dark desires of a Telmarine king. And if his lovely wife could not fulfill such needs, who could begrudge the king for looking elsewhere?

As he stood on the balcony, overlooking the construction site, his glittering eyes were fixed on the boy in the faded blue shirt. He watched as the pale sun glinted off of golden hair, pink lips pressing together in concentration as strong young arms hefted a heavy brick out of the oven. He watched as the boy staggered as he bore the weight, his supple limbs straining. The thin material of his too-large shirt slipped, baring one shapely shoulder for a moment, smooth as cream.

Miraz's mouth opened slightly, and his lips, thin and crooked, quirked upwards into a cruel smile that was barely there. His eyes burning and never leaving the delicate features of the boy slave, the king gestured to the general, who was standing silently at his side.

"Who is that?" he demanded.

"His name is Pevensie, sire," said the general. "He is one of the workers that were… _recruited_… from the outer Narnian villages."

The king's hands curled around the banister. A thin finger, covered in a heavy signet ring, stroked across the smooth marble and Miraz imagined it to be the marble-pale throat of the Narnian slave boy. "Have your men fetch him and bring him to my chambers," said the king.

Thank you all so much for reading, and please comment to let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: This is totally AU from the books and movies, yet still maintains many elements from both, so sorry if this is confusing or weird.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed my story! Your kind words inspire me greatly.

WARNINGS: this story contains slash as well as several dark themes, such as non-consensual sex, violence, slavery, etc.

Chapter 3

It wasn't Miraz's own bedchamber, of course. No one but his most trusted guards, valet, and sometimes his wife were allowed in the king's private bedroom. They put Peter in the room that was reserved for the king's illicit affairs, where many other young men and women had been subject to the king's "love."

The Narnian boy was utterly confused and, though he tried not to show it, afraid. He had no idea what was going to happen to him, or what he was supposed to do when the ushered him in.

The room was rather nice though. There was a bed in the center of the room, twice as big as his own back at home. The covers were made of some pale green brocade and he dared not sit on them, lest he soiled them with his clothes. Instead, he sat at the small table where a silver flagon of wine rested, along with two cups. He didn't touch that either.

He at first thought that the guards were taking him to either be killed or punished for assaulting the prince the day before, but since this didn't quite look like a torture chamber, Peter figured he would be allowed to live. For awhile, at least.

When he looked out the window, to see if there was some manner of escape, he was sorely disappointed. It seemed as if his captor, whoever it was, had taken pains to ensure he would stay put. The room was extremely high up and there was a sheer drop to the ground below. Two armed Telmarine guards stood underneath the window, and they had hounds with them.

So, he sat and twisted his hands anxiously. He was all too aware of the stench of smoke and sweat on his skin, the dirt and grime that were caked on his clothes. Four days of such labor had made him incredibly filthy. He thought he must seem horribly out of place among things so refined.

The door opening startled him and he stood, not knowing what to expect. In walked a man, a dark, bearded man. The first thing Peter noticed was the eyes. He had never seen such cold, black eyes. He felt his stomach drop as the glittering beads focused on him, scrutinizing him from head to toe. Shrewd, with no inkling of pity or love. The second thing he noticed was the robes, velvet and ermine, richly dyed. This man must be of some importance in the Telmarine court.

The man gave him a short look and shut the door behind him; Peter heard the latch click. His pulse quickened as he realized now, that there was truly no way out.

Before Peter could say anything the man took a step towards him and his beak-like nose wrinkled in revulsion. "Did they not clean you up?" said the Telmarine stranger with a look of disgust at Peter's clothes.

"Who are you?" said Peter standing behind a chair, gripping the back of it as if to shield himself from the stranger.

The man gave a rather dangerous chuckle. "Do you not recognize your own king?"

"Miraz!" Peter murmured, his eyes widening. _This_ was the one, the tyrant, the king. The one who killed his father, his friends, Narnians, free people. When the Telmarines had attacked his village when he was only thirteen, in the name of the king, they said, his young mind had conjured up some sort of horrible monster. A fire-belching, ten-foot-tall demon from another world was what Peter had envisioned the king to be, all his life. Fear and hatred had been his only sentiments.

But now, in this quiet chamber, he realized that Miraz the Monster, Miraz the Demon was no more than just a man. Not even so remarkable a man, he was. How could this person, not even as evil-looking and powerful as Peter imagined him to be, have had the stomach to do such terrible things? Was he not flesh and blood, himself?

"And this is how you would address your king, boy?" said the man, and Peter felt all the pain and horror he had suffered because of _this_ man, gather up in his chest and threaten to break forth.

"You," Peter hissed, "are not _my_ king!"

Miraz stared at Peter for a moment, and then laughed, as if highly amused. "Of course. You Narnians have no love for me, this I know. Come," he gestured. "Sit, sit."

"What do you want with me?" Peter asked, angrily. "Why have I been brought here?"

"You will know soon enough," said Miraz. "Sit." This time, it was not a request but an order.

Peter, for a loss of what else to do, obeyed and Miraz sat down opposite him. Nonchalantly, casually, the king poured a cup of wine from the flagon and slid it across the table to his "guest.," who recoiled slightly.

"Drink. It's not poisoned, I assure you. I only poison members of my own family," Miraz said drolly, with a twist of the lips that can hardly be called a smile. And the king took some wine as well. Peter saw him swallow, saw the sickly pink tongue dart out and lick at the moistened lips and the boy shivered.

"What do you want with me?" Peter asked again, hating that his voice trembled slightly. _It felt wrong, so wrong. Why was he here? Why did the king watch him with such _hungry_ eyes?_

"Drink," said the king simply never losing his smile, and he watched Peter as a vulture would watch a dying animal.

His throat was so parched. Breathing heavily through his nose, Peter looked down at the cup. It looked innocent enough. He snatched it up and gulped it.

"Good," said Miraz, his voice sticky and sweet like too much honey. _Honey, so sticky, like mire._ Peter felt hot and his throat was uncomfortably tight. His hand fell loosely to his side and the cup clattered to the floor. _Mired, trapped_.

His eyelids had started to droop, but they snapped open wide in shock when a heavily-ringed hand reached from across the table and stroked his flushed face. Miraz's thumb brushed across a smooth cheekbone and Peter's breath came out in a harsh whoosh, his mouth dropping open. His body froze with shock.

"Tell me, boy," said Miraz, his tone suggestive and sensual, "have you ever been with a man before?"

"Wh-what are you doing?" Peter stammered. He was shaking, his hands clenching into themselves. _No, no! He couldn't, he wouldn't mean to… _The wine was so sweet, so terribly sweet in his mouth.

"Oh, I think you know," drawled the king, and his long fingers slid down to gently stroke the boy's neck, pushing down the fabric of the shirt to expose the collarbone. Peter's mouth and eyes were wide in disbelief as the nauseous feeling of horror coiled around his stomach. His body had already recognized what his mind was refusing to, what the king was intending to do.

"Have you ever wondered, fair boy, what it's like to be with a king?" said Miraz, rolling his tongue over each syllable, his smile twisting into a leer. While the king's left hand played with the skin on Peter's throat, the boy felt the king's other hand reach under the table and lay against his thigh.

"Don't touch me!" he gasped, jerking away and standing so quickly his chair fell over with a dull thump. He almost fell over, himself. His head was dizzy and he thought he would be sick. He stumbled backwards, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the king.

"Feisty," remarked Miraz, slowly rising from his seat and walking steadily towards Peter. "That will be taken care of, in time."

Peter backed up until he felt his back hit the wall. He shook his head, trying to clear his swimming vision as Miraz advanced on him. When the king held out his hand again, the long, spindly digits like a spider's limbs, Peter panicked and lashed out, blindly. There was a brief struggle as Miraz tried to grab him, and then Peter felt his fist connect.

The king staggered back in shock, his hand going to his mouth. His ringed fingers came away bloody.

"Why, you…" he growled, so angry he couldn't speak. He raised his arm and back-handed Peter so hard the boy crashed into the wall and fell to the floor with a groan.

In an instant, the two guards that were stationed outside of the room came barging in. "My liege, we heard a struggle-" one of them said, and stopped in shock as he beheld his king with a cut lip and a bruised cheek. Miraz let out a wordless snarl and pointed a threatening finger at Peter, who was trying to get up.

"I want you to take this miserable wretch outside and teach him a lesson," Miraz snapped. At the king's orders the two guards went to Peter and hoisted him up. There was almost no resistance as they dragged the almost-unconscious boy from the room.

As Peter was pulled, stumbling, out of the chamber, he heard Miraz call after them, "Don't mark his face!"

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Caspian knew he should not have been sneaking around that part of the castle. The few times he had wandered there, out of curiosity, he had been caught and confined to his room, as punishment. He did not relish being caught again, but he longed to see the boy, the one with the captivating blue eyes. What was it about the Narnian slave that had him so enthralled? All he could think about were cornflower-blue eyes and hair the color of wheat.

He knew the general area where the Narnian captives were usually kept and worked. Ducking through a stone colonnade, he crouched down to avoid two soldiers on patrol, and crept on when they left.

Caspian crossed the lawns and terraces, going deeper and deeper until he reached the inner courtyard. Staying close to a wall, the prince observed many sentries on duty, overseeing the few workers that had not retired yet for the day. He kept an eye peeled for a certain Narnian boy, but did not see him.

He walked a bit way off, towards the prisoners' quarters, and that's when he heard it. A cracking sound and a soft cry of pain. Then it came again. _THWACK_, and a cry. A shuddering sigh.

Quietly, Caspian crept towards the sound. Around a massive stone column, he wound his way and came upon a smaller courtyard, surrounded by buildings which usually housed prisoners of war. Then, he saw the horrible source of the sound.

It was dark but he saw everything with terrible clarity. The blonde boy was tied to a wooden post, his clothes and shoes strewn across the ground. He was nude, his arms stretched painfully above his head, bound with leather straps. The pale skin of his back, buttocks, and thighs was covered with red strips.

There were two Telmarine soldiers that Caspian recognized as his uncle's personal guard. One of them stood off to the side while the other stood before the naked boy's back, with what Caspian saw to be a birch rod in his hand.

The prince stared, stock-still, as the soldier plunged the bundle of birch switches into a nearby barrel of water. Lifting it out, dripping wet, the soldier swung the heavy rod at the naked boy. Caspian's eyes widened as he saw the rod fly through the air and strike the body, saw the youth recoil with a gasp, his hands and feet flexing helplessly as each individual switch sank into vulnerable flesh, biting into the skin, leaving behind yet another score of painful welts.

The Narnian boy released his breath in a tremulous sigh and Caspian could see his legs shaking, fighting to bear his weight as he gritted his teeth to stave off the tears. It was when the soldier was raising the birch for another strike that the prince snapped out of his stupor.

"Stop it!" he cried, stalking forward. "Stop it at once! What do you think you're doing? Let him down immediately!" Both of the soldiers looked up, startled.

"Prince Caspian!" said the one without the rod. "You should not be here, your majesty. If the king knew…"

"I will deal with whatever the king has to say to me, soldier. Now, let him down!"

The prince started as if to release the boy himself, but the soldier moved to block his path. "I'm sorry you had to witness this, your majesty. Such an ugly affair, but it is simply a matter of discipline."

"_Discipline?_" Caspian cried unbelievingly. He glanced at the boy, who was now hanging from his bonds, his head buried in his arms. The blond head rose slightly to reveal a tear-streaked face. The watery blue eyes looked upon Caspian and the prince could see shoulders shaking. The cheeks were flushed red with pain as well as humiliation at being so exposed.

"_What_," said Caspian through gritted teeth, "could he possibly have done to warrant such…_discipline_? No, sir, this is _torture_."

"I'm sorry, my prince," said the soldier in front of him, and he lay a restraining arm on Caspian's shoulder. "The slave's offence is with his majesty, the king. It is under the king's orders that he is treated thus."

Another _THWACK_, from the soldier that had not paused in his task. "Aagh!" a soft cry, torn from the boy's mouth. A thin thread of red saliva was dripping from his lips, where he had bitten himself bloody. The prince was shaking in fury.

"I demand that you release him!" said Caspian, shaking off the patronizing hand. "Am I not your prince!?"

"My prince Caspian," said a voice from behind him, and Caspian spun around to see General Glozelle standing at the entrance to the courtyard, a very grim expression on his face.

"Come, my prince," said Glozelle, walking towards him and gripping his arm. The hold was not tight, but Caspian could feel the firmness and strength behind the grip and knew that he was expected to obey. "It is time you returned to your chambers. Let us leave these soldiers to their duties."

Caspian found himself being led away, rather forcefully, by the good general. It was against the law to strike the prince, but Caspian had no doubt the general would resort to wrestling him out of there by force if he had to. He craned his head around to catch one last glimpse of the Narnian boy. All he heard was a quivering sob, so quiet, helpless in the dark.

They walked in silence, their booted feet making the only sound in the stillness of the dusk. It was only when they left that particular part of the castle that Caspian pulled his arm free with a jerk and glared at the general.

"What was the meaning of that?" demanded Caspian, breathing hard, his fists clenched. "Did you not see what they were doing? How could you have let that continue?"

"That," said the General sternly, "is something you never should have seen. There are reasons why your uncle prohibited you from visiting those parts of the castle!"

"What are you-" Caspian started. He looked at Glozelle as if seeing him for the first time, the lines in his face, testament to the burdens he had to bear.

"General, you have been my teacher and my guardian all these years. You know I honor the Telmarine law like no other, but please, tell me. What is it that my uncle would keep from me? What goes on in these walls?"

The general sighed and Caspian thought that he looked weary, so weary. "These are not the kind of questions you should be asking."

"All my life people have told me that," said Caspian bitterly. "Please, general, tell me, if you have ever been my friend. What is going on in this castle? Why was that Narnian being treated so cruelly?"

"I cannot answer that, Prince Caspian. You must never wander there by yourself again. And never, ever, go against an order made by your uncle. If he feels the need to discipline," Caspian snorted at the word, "one of his subjects, then you must not get in the way. For your own sake." And Glozelle walked away, leaving Caspian frustrated, seeking answers but finding none, and worrying, _wishing_, to see the other boy again.

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Edmund slammed the cupboard shut, sighing. Nothing but dust and a cobweb. He picked up the last loaf of stale bread. He cut it in half with the kitchen knife, wincing at the crackling, crumbling noises that food should never make. He looked over at Lucy, sitting at the table with Thomas-Bear clutched in her arms, looking at him with large, hopeful eyes.

He sighed again. He put each bread half into a bowl and poured water over them from a pitcher. Taking a wooden spoon, he pounded away at the stale mess until the water softened it into a sickly gruel.

Edmund carried the two bowls over to Lucy and plunked one of them down in front of her, scowling when the little girl looked at it mournfully, then back up at him.

"There's no use scoffing at it," said Edmund impatiently, thrusting a spoon at her. "It's all we've got left."

Lucy lowered her eyes and obediently took the offered spoon, started scooping up her dinner. They ate silently in the dark. No candles to be spared. It was cold and drafty, though all the windows were boarded up, as well as the door, which had been broken that fateful night they came and took his brother away.

Edmund looked up at a small whimper from Lucy. Her bottom lip was trembling, her eyes moist. "Where do you think Peter is?" she asked, in a small voice.

"How should I know?" mumbled Edmund, his shoulders slumping and his face twisted. There was no more talk for awhile.

It was when Edmund was rinsing off the two bowls and spoons in the wash basin later, that Lucy came over and gave him a hug. Her arms wrapped around his thin waist, her face pressed into his back, and her bear squashed awkwardly between their bodies. For a moment, his heart pounds and hot tears fill his eyes, but he forced them back.

"Get off, silly," he murmured quietly. He gives a little wriggle and she let go.

"I love you Edmund," Lucy whispered, her round face tilted up to look into his, and Edmund does not know what to say.

The sound of iron hooves striking the ground, loud and frightening, makes the children jump. Edmund drops what he's doing and rushes to the door. Throwing it open, he sees them, the Telmarine soldiers. His breath catches, and to his great shame, he does not have the courage to dash back into the house and take up his father's sword, like Peter was so willing to do. All the anger, heroic planning, and willingness to fight he had building up inside of him in the past, and now, he found that he was afraid, so afraid. Ashamedly, he found that without Peter by his side, strong and brave, he was just a boy.

The townspeople were coming out of their homes, staring forlornly at the newcomers. There was no outcry this time, no show of defiance, not when so many of their own had just died so recently.

The herald, a different one this time, rode his horse forward with a cocky gait, surveying the gray, weary faces of the villagers with the same disdain as did the herald before him.

"We have intelligence," he announced, "that this village is housing or protecting members of the Narnian Resistance. It is known throughout the land, that such an act against the king is highly illegal and punishable by death. Give up the enemies of the king, and no harm will come to this village. Continue to harbor these traitors, and these soldiers," he gestured to the ten armed men at his back, "will raze this place to the ground."

The villagers were silent, unmoving. Staring with dead, cold eyes, as if they had already accepted their fate.

"Well?" demanded the herald. "No value for your own sorry hides?"

It was a woman, pale and worn, who stepped up, and Edmund recognized her as the carpenter's wife. Her husband was killed during the previous raid.

"There is no one here," she spoke, her voice low and wan. "We do not house any member of the Lion's Army."

Leaning forward on his horse, the Telmarine struck her hard in the face and she fell down.

"Your pathetic lies will not save you," he snarled angrily. "Well?!" he asked facing the rest of the people, who shrank back. "Where are the Narnian traitors? Speak!"

When no one answered, the man smiled grimly and drew his sword with sickening screech of steel. "Then this village burns."

All of a sudden, the man jerked, as if he had been stung. His hand went to his throat, came away bloody, and Edmund gasped as he saw the arrow jutting out of the man's neck.

Slowly, the Telmarine herald fell off his horse, sideways, and crashed to the ground. The other then soldiers cried out in surprise, raising their crossbows and pointing them at the shocked villagers.

"Who was it!" one of them demanded. "Who shot him?!"

Another arrow whizzed through the air and buried itself in another Telmarine's back. The soldiers realized, too late, that the attack was coming from behind, and then, the newcomers were upon them. Narnian rebels, the Resistance that Miraz's men were so eager to stamp out, the Lion's Army.

Shouting their battle cries, about thirty armed men and women charged the Telmarines, some wielding bows and arrows, some wielding swords and daggers. The horsed soldiers taken utterly by surprised, and the clash of steel against steel rang out in the air, mingled with cries of violence. The battle was over in a matter of minutes.

There was only one survivor, the herald of the king, who was lying on the ground, still bleeding from the neck. As the villagers surged forward, cheering, and the Resistance also cheered at their small victory, one lone, helmed, figure walked over to the gasping man on the ground. Her riding kirtle was covered with chain mail, and she held a bow in her hand. It was she who had loosed the arrow that was now killing him.

"To our leader!" shouted one of the Narnian rebels raising his sword towards the woman, and the rest of them did the same, yelling and stamping their feet. She, however, was silent as she gazed down upon the dying man.

"Show… me…your…face, coward," gasped the Telmarine. Silently, she raised a pale arm, gripped her silver helm, drew it off. A wave of jet black hair fell to frame a pale face. _So fair_.

"It's you!" wheezed the herald, his eyes wide, before they rolled back in his head and he passed out.

The figure raised her head and Edmund felt his heart stop. This was no woman, no warrior, but a girl. A girl with blue eyes and features so like his own.

"Susan! It's Susan!" Lucy shrieked, and dashed from his side.

Susan dropped her bow and fell onto her knees, opening her arms wide as Lucy ran into them. Tears fell down her face as she embraced her little sister, rocking her back and forth as Lucy sobbed against her neck.

"Darling, oh Darling," Susan cried.

And Edmund, stubborn Edmund, who had _promised_ himself over and over again, that he would hate Susan for leaving to join the Resistance, that he would show her no love if she ever returned, found himself running to her like a lost puppy.

Susan, who saw him coming, shifted Lucy to one side and embraced Edmund as he, also, fell on her neck, weeping as if his heart would break.

"Oh, Lamb," she whispered into his hair. "I'm home, I'm finally home."

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Thank you all so much for reading, and please comment to let me know what you think! Sorry there isn't much Caspian/Peter yet, but it's coming, I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: Parts of this chapter were inspired by Emily Dickinson's poetry. Also, there are some TEENSY references/spoilers for the Prince Caspian book.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed my story! You have no idea how happy it makes me, as an author, to know that you like my fiction. hugs all of u (also, sorry if I missed anyone in my replies)

Also, I'm really sorry to say this, but I won't be able to update again for about a week. 

WARNINGS: this story contains slash as well as several dark themes, such as non-consensual sex, violence, slavery, etc.

Chapter 4

The entire back side of his body felt like it was on fire. It was utterly dark around him and his limbs felt so heavy. Peter slowly trudged back to consciousness with a pained groan. He vaguely noted that he was back in the slaves' quarters, on his pallet. Thank goodness they had laid him on his front.

He coughed weakly. Someone was stroking his hair. He forced open his eyelids and squinted up at a rather small boy who was gently smoothing back the sweaty bangs from his face.

"Edmund?" he rasped.

"M-my name is Gilbert," said the boy with large eyes, and Peter could see that it wasn't Edmund, just another young boy with dark hair and freckles. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, next to Peter and had an inquisitive look on his face.

"Are you alright?" said Gilbert, and he made to remove the thin blanket that was covering the older boy.

"Don't," said Peter quickly, catching the boy's hand, even though the movement made pain ripple through his body. He didn't want the boy to see the fiery-red welts and be frightened.

"What did they do to you?" whispered the freckled boy, looking at Peter with curiously and a bit apprehensively.

Peter slowly raised his head off of his arm that served as a pillow, and looked around. He could tell by Gilbert's clothes that he was also probably a slave, also probably a Narnian captive. There seemed to be no one else in the warehouse besides him and the small boy. Though their sleeping quarters were windowless, the little light that came from the doorway told Peter that it was daytime. _What had happened_?

"Noth-Nothing I couldn't handle," Peter said, his words punctuated with a dry cough. Even that hurt. He tried to smile at the boy, and winced when he felt the dried blood that was caked on the inside and outside of his mouth.

"Oh. Your teeth's got blood on them," said Gilbert nervously.

"Sorry," said Peter, grimacing at the bitter taste in his mouth. "Where is everyone? And how did I get here?" He didn't remember much about the night before, only that he must have passed out while they were birching him. He _did_ remember the prince, though…

"Everyone else is at work, of course. I was too, but I snuck away. _You're_ here because the guards said they'd give you a day to recover."

"Guards?" wondered Peter. "Did they bring me here last night?"

"Yes," said Gilbert softly. "I thought you were dead, because they had to drag you in, and you weren't moving or anything. They said you had a day to recover before you've got to work again."

"Oh, how kind of them," Peter mumbled, burying his head in his arms again, trying to will away the sting from the numerous welts on his body.

"Then…you were really sick," said Gilbert hesitantly, idly drawing patterns on the ground with a finger. "You were kind of…. crying, like you were having a bad dream."

"I must have woken up the whole place," said Peter ruefully.

"You did," said the other boy. "You don't remember? You got really, really sick and you were shaking and moaning and everything. Mr. Jacob had to _carry_ you to the bathroom."

"Oh," said Peter, his face turning pink. That sounded quite embarrassing.

"Are you alright now?" said the boy anxiously, leaning forward to look at Peter's injuries with a child's morbid curiosity.

"Now, Gilbert," called a voice from the doorway and both of them looked up. Peter recognized the elderly man whom he usually shared his pallet with. "Shouldn't you be running along? You know it'll be a beating for you if they catch you loafing about."

"I just wanted to see how he was doing, Mr. Jacob," said Gilbert with a little pout. He looked at Peter as if he was some kind of interesting specimen to be studied.

"Well now you have seen him, and it's time for you to go. Be a good lad," said Jacob, giving the dark-haired boy a firm look. Gilbert sighed, stood up, and scampered away. Jacob had a nice voice, Peter decided, a voice a grandfather would have, warm and kindly but stern at the same time. He looked rather nice too, with graying hair and a wrinkled face.

Now left alone with his pallet-partner, Peter looked up rather sheepishly from where he lay. "Um, Gilbert told me about last night, sir. Thank you for helping me, even though I can't really remember what happened. I must have caused quite a lot of trouble for you and I'm really sorry…"

"Nonsense, my boy," said Jacob, and he knelt down next to Peter. "We must look after one another, after all. No one else to look after us. And besides, you've become quite the hero in the last few hours, among us poor laborers, anyway, and I was honored to take care of you," this he said with a cheeky grin.

"How do you mean?" said Peter. Instead of answering right away, the old man lifted up a corner of his blanket. Peter pulled it back, blushing, as he was naked underneath.

Jacob batted away Peter's hand with a little scoff. "Don't be silly, lad. I'll need to be taking a look at those bruises." He lifted the cloth and clucked his tongue at what he saw. Peter was quite glad he couldn't see his own body, if it looked as bad as it felt. He looked at Jacob taking out a small jar from a hidden pocket of his shirt.

"Is that medicine?" Peter asked, trying to turn his head around to see. "That must've been hard to come by, sir. You shouldn't use it on me."

"Nonsense," Jacob repeated, waving his hand nonchalantly, and he began to spread a healing salve over Peter's body. The boy moaned quietly in pain, hiding his head and blushing again when he felt the old man touching his more tender areas; but soon, the comforting hands on his skin and the cool medicine took away the worst of it.

"What's your name?" the old man asked, gently kneading sore muscles.

"It's Peter, sir."

"Peter…" said the old man, his wrinkled eyes closing halfway as if remembering some far away memory. "Named after the legendary High King, I suppose?"

Peter snorted lightly. "Yes, just like every other single Narnian named Peter, I _suppose_." Jacob smiled as he continued to massage the young man's back, hearing Peter sigh softly as knots of tension released themselves.

"It is a valiant name," said Jacob, in an almost admonishing way.

"Well, I don't feel very valiant right now," Peter mumbled rather forlornly, burying his face into the crook of his arm.

Jacob chuckled lightly. "But you are, my dear boy. The whole castle must have heard the news by now. They say you struck King Miraz! Quite a courageous feat, and one to be lauded, especially among poor prisoners like us."

"They did?" said Peter in surprise. "How did they know so quickly?"

Jacob laughed. "You will soon discover, dear, that in places like Miraz's castle, the walls have ears and the news spreads quicker than the wind."

"I didn't really… I mean, it wasn't like I _attacked_ him or anything," Peter said, blushing yet again. "I was just trying to defend myself," and he averted his eyes, remembering with shame, what had transpired in Miraz's chambers.

"Still," said Jacob, now replacing the blanket over Peter's body and tucking him in, "you did raise your hand against the king. Yet here you are, still alive, with only a whipping to show for it. Greater knights than you have been killed for less. What miracle kept Miraz from having you executed on the spot?"

Peter went silent, refusing to look at him, and Jacob could see a tremble run up the length of his body. He sighed. So the other rumors were true as well.

"Peter," he said softly, laying a hand on the boy's bare shoulder. A slight flinch. "When I saw them take you away yesterday, I knew what it was that Miraz wanted. There is nothing to be ashamed of, dear boy. No one here could have ignored your loveliness, especially not the king with his wandering eyes. And I will tell you, there have been many, far plainer than you, who have submitted to the king's desires with far less bravery."

A sniffle came from the blond boy and Jacob realized that Peter was crying. _So young, so young, though he has endured so much_. _And so vulnerable, still_.

"I am neither lovely nor brave," whispered Peter, still refusing to meet the other's eyes. "I just… I miss my family. I wish I was back home again." He chuckled humorlessly, making it sound more like a sob. "I am no hero, and I don't want to be one. I merely struck out because I was protecting myself. And look where it got me." His voice cracked a little, a bitter smile twisting his lips.

"Oh, Peter, my son," said Jacob sadly, gently stroking the blond locks. The old man's eyes were moist. "I miss my family too, sometimes, though the pain has grown less over the years."

"Your family?" asked Peter, looking up in curiosity. He had been sleeping next to the old man for days, but never once had he thought that Jacob would also, like him, have another life outside of Miraz's castle.

"Yes," said Jacob. "I had a wife, and a son. I have not seen them since the day they took me away."

Peter felt his heart catch at these words. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and took the man's wrinkled hand into his. "Where in Narnia did you come from?"

Jacob laughed lightly at this, though his eyes were still sad. "Do I look Narnian to you, dear Peter?"

"Why, what do you…oh," gasped Peter, getting his first good look at Jacob's face, just now recognizing the mild accent that was barely there. "You are a _Telmarine_? But…but why would you be here?"

"I was a great Lord of the Telmarine court, once," said the man, and he had a wistful look upon his face. "Formerly, Lord Erimon."

"But what happened?" asked Peter, eyes wide.

Jacob smiled cheerlessly. "That is tale best left untold, my son. Suffice to say, that I displeased his Majesty, the king. But you must listen to me now, and listen well," he said, and he looked a great deal more somber, so that Peter looked at him attentively.

"As one of Miraz's former courtiers, I know a great deal about how things function in this castle. And let me assure you, Peter, you got off easy this time, with merely a birching. The reason, the _only_ reason you are still alive with all your limbs intact, is because the king favors you and wants you to become his lover. But, if you resist him a second time, he might not be so generous."

"But what are you saying?" cried Peter, shocked. "That I should just… _let him_…?"

"I know this goes against everything in your heart," replied Jacob, "Honor, virtue, love. But you must understand that here, in this hellish place where we are all kept prisoner, it is the king who rules and it is he who can snuff out your life as easily as a candle's flame. You must not refuse him again, if you wish to live."

"You can't be serious," said Peter, shaking his head disbelievingly. "You can't be suggesting that I _give_ him my body?" and he began to shiver at the very thought of Miraz's fingers against his skin again.

"As soon as you entered this place," said Jacob, looking sadly at Peter, "it was never yours to _give_, but his to take. You are young. You have not seen some of the things that I have, the horrors and violence which Miraz wrecks upon those that do not obey him. Though Miraz is by no means a kind lover, he is a thousand times worse as your enemy. _As_ his lover, however, you would gain privileges that no one else has. Most importantly, you will have his protection, for as long as he is still taken with you."

"Maybe so," whispered Peter, so quietly and sadly that Jacob almost didn't hear him. "But I would end up losing my soul, wouldn't I?" A tear rolled down the boy's fair face.

The room was silent as Peter turned his face away from Jacob, unable to look at the man. Jacob sighed, as if his heart was breaking. "Tell me, have you ever been with anyone before? Ever had a lover?"

"Of course not," Peter said, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, my poor boy. This will not be easy for you. What you must think of me, for suggesting you be with _him_," Jacob said, shaking his head sorrowfully. "But believe me, _please_, if you cross Miraz again, this world would be losing a brave and compassionate young man with the purest heart I ever met." The old man stood up with a tired groan, and turned to leave. Peter's quiet voice made him pause.

"Jacob? _Thank you_. For looking after me."

The former Telmarine Lord looked down at Peter, and he smiled gently. Then, hesitating, almost as an after-thought, he took another small vial from his sleeve and bent down again, helping Peter lift his head up.

"This will help you sleep, and perhaps, keep the nightmares away," he said, and poured a few drops into the boy's mouth.

It felt nice, the warmth going down his sore throat. Peter immediately began to feel drowsy, but it was a nice kind of drowsiness, not the sick, sinking feeling he got from drinking Miraz's wine. His eyes started to close, and he felt Jacob press a kiss to his cheek.

"Rest well, my dear," and Jacob left. As he slipped into asleep, Peter thought he was falling, hard and fast, into another world.

It was the garden again, green and magnificent. Yet, his way was still barred by the golden gates. Susan, or rather, the queen, was there again, and gold flowers still crowned her lovely head. She was still holding the strange cup, white as ivory and decorated with carvings on the outside. Tongues of flame still burned from within it, red as blood, quivering, quivering.

As before, Peter heard the lion's roar, but it was so much louder this time that it shook the ground he was standing on. And by the force of that roar, the gates flew open and revealed the garden, as beautiful as Peter had imagined.

With the queen watching him solemnly and silently, Peter passed through the gates and into the magical garden. He waked up a path, which led to a hill covered in green grass. The hill was so steep, almost a mountain, and Peter felt there was no way he could climb it.

But then, a Lion, glorious and golden and so very large, appeared next to him. His solemn eyes stared into Peter's and the boy _felt_, rather than heard, Him speak.

_Would'st climb, my son?_

"With you?" Peter asked, and saw the Lion say "yes" with His eyes. Peter was allowed to lay a hand on the Lion's magnificent mane and together, they ascended the green hill.

Up and up, higher and higher they climbed, yet Peter never got tired. There was something on the crest of the hill, something that shone like a star, and when they finally reached the top, Peter saw that it was a sword, embedded into the earth.

He gasped at the beauty of the weapon, so elegant and noble. A silver lion's head decorated the pommel and there was an inscription on the blade, but he could not understand the words.

"_Rhindon_," Peter whispered reverently, though he had no idea how the name came into his head. The sword glowed all the brighter as soon as he spoke its name, as if it had been waiting for that exact moment for ages and ages. All was bright around him and he had to shield his eyes from the dazzling light.

"I am dreaming," he thought to himself. "This is a dream."

……………………………

…………………………….

"I had a dream," said Susan, and her voice was met with silence. She was sitting on Peter's now-empty bed in their house, and Lucy was on her lap, looking intently up at her. Edmund stood sullenly off to the side, with his arms crossed.

"Not two weeks ago, I dreamt of Aslan. I was standing in front of a green hill, and I knew somehow that I was meant to climb it, but I couldn't. It was too high, so I lost hope and walked away. And then, He appeared. I knew it was Aslan even before I turned my head and saw Him. Isn't that strange?"

"Weren't you afraid?" asked Lucy, her eyes wide and curious.

"Yes I was," said Susan, "but not for long. When He stood by my side, I felt as if the sun was warming my every bone, and there was such _goodness_ radiating from Him, oh, I can't explain it."

"And what did this _good_ lion do?" asked Edmund sardonically. "Let you pet him, like he was a cat? Play with you? Ask for a bowl of milk?"

"No, Edmund," said Susan, giving her brother a rather reproachful look. "He walked with me, back the way I came, until we were at the foot of the hill again. _Would'st climb?_ He asked me. _Would'st climb with me, Daughter of Eve?_ And even though I was afraid that I would fall, I could not answer 'no.' He let me take His mane in my hand and we walked up the hill, and it was so easy, because He was with me."

"And then what happened?" asked Lucy.

Susan looked at Edmund's scowling face and sighed. "And then…nothing. I woke up, Lu."

"Well I don't believe a word of it," Edmund snapped spitefully. "And I _don't_ believe in Aslan!"

"Oh, Edmund!" gasped Lucy fearfully.

"Don't you believe in a word she says, Lu!" Edmund said, pointing an accusing finger at Susan. "All she's _ever_ done is lie! Again and again!"

Susan gently set Lucy on her feet and stood up. She was still taller than the 12-year-old, but she marveled at how much he'd grown since she left, two years ago.

"I'm so sorry, Lamb," she said, and tears welled up in her eyes as she beheld all the pain and rage in her little brother's face. "I'm so sorry for leaving you. But I'm back now, and I promise-"

"_Promise_!" yelled Edmund scornfully, looking so fierce that Susan took a step backwards. "You _promised _to never leave! You _promised _to take care of us after Mother left! You held Peter's hand and _promised_ to help him keep the family together! You even promised Mother, looked right into her eye before the Telmarines took her away, and _promised_ to look after me and Lucy!"

"Oh do stop yelling!" Lucy whimpered, her hands over her ears, and she started crying too.

"I hate you!" Edmund cried, fists clenched in rage. "And I hate that you look like Mother!"

"Well I'm _NOT_ Mother!" Susan yelled back, just as loudly. "And you are not my child! Don't you think I have a right to my own life? My own honor? Don't you?!"

"Shut up!" Edmund yelled, and stamped his foot. He grabbed Peter's deck of cards off of the bureau and threw it to take out his frustrations, the brightly colored pieces flying out everywhere.

"Do you believe," Susan forged ahead, relentlessly, "that I enjoyed sitting around the house each day, doing the cleaning, doing the sewing, all the while knowing that I could be out there, helping to fight? Sitting here idly while others were dying for our cause? No, dear brother, my conscience would not allow it!"

"Your conscience," sneered Edmund, "should have made you stay! Peter didn't go running off to join the Resistance as soon as he was of age!"

"Well Peter isn't here now either, is he?!"

Lucy wailed, her voice rising to a shriek, and Susan immediately stopped her angry tirade. The older girl seemed to lose all her energy at once as her face crumpled down into a sob. Lucy ran to Susan and embraced her waist with her small arms and Susan hugged her back, sinking to her knees.

Edmund plopped down onto the floor, wiping furiously at his eyes. His rage was spent, but his anger still smoldered as he glared at his older sister.

"Oh, Ed," sobbed the elder girl, looking more like a child than ever, her hair disheveled and her eyes red. "You know I don't mean that, right? You know I love you both, so much it hurts. I would never have left if I hadn't thought it was _right_."

"And what about Mother?" said Edmund, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Did you ever try to find her, or were you too busy chasing after your stupid dreams?"

Susan looked at him with so much sorrow in her eyes that he felt his stomach drop. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I did find her. She's dead. They say she died in the prison, because she was sick."

"You're lying!" screamed Edmund, pounding the floor with his fists with all the strength he could muster. "Stop lying, you horrible…!"

He was so choked with emotion that he could no longer talk and he fled, red-faced, from the room. They heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs and a door slammed above them.

"Ssshh, Darling," Susan said gently, rocking Lucy back and forth. The little girl seemed to be in shock, no longer weeping but shaking uncontrollably.

Susan stroked her back with hands that were callused from holding a bow and wielding a sword. She, herself, had no more tears to spend, having already wept herself dry when she first found out about her mother's demise.

Two long years. Two years away from her family, battling, desperately trying to stay alive, struggling and fighting, all for a faint glimmer of hope, the hope of restoring a free Narnia. Was it all worth it, to come back to such a broken household?

They sat like that for a long time, while the sky grew dark outside. When Lucy finally stopped her terrible trembling, Susan gently pushed her back and looked into her pale face.

"Do you want to know a secret, Lucy?" she whispered, brushing a wisp of her sister's hair behind her ear. Lucy nodded numbly and Susan pressed her lips to her sister's ear, whispering as if the truth would escape.

"In my dream, I walked with Aslan, up the hill. Higher and higher we went, until we came to the top. There, He bade me kneel, and when I rose again, there was a crown of golden flowers on my head. Then, He bade me look out over the hill, towards the west, and I saw a great wood. Aslan roared and the trees themselves quaked as if they were dancing. Then He bade me look north, and I saw the great dark castle of the Telmarine king. He roared again, so loudly, and the entire castle broke and shattered like glass." She laughed, and wiped the dried tears from her Lucy's face. So pretty.

"Do you know what this means, Lucy?" The little girl shook her head. "It means that the time has come. The Resistance grows stronger with every passing day as the Telmarine king corrupts his own kingdom from within. Narnia is growing stronger. The time grows near," Susan said, her blue eyes blazing with the glint of battle, "to take back what is ours."

………………………

……………………..

True to their word, the Telmarine overseers put Peter right back to work after one day of rest. He was in pain most of the time, the strain of lifting heavy bricks pulling at his injuries in the worst way possible. He would shiver uncontrollably at night, his body cold even though his head was burning up. Jacob would hold him tightly during the worst of it, smoothing back his sweaty bangs from his fevered forehead while humming him to sleep. He was so lucky to have so good a friend.

It was now the third day that he was back at work, and his condition did not seem to be improving. Peter's arms trembled often, and many times, he nearly dropped the heavy bricks that he was made to carry. He was sweating and freezing at the same time, and could barely control the chattering of his teeth.

The rough material of his shirt rubbed against his raw skin with every movement and he could feel his head pounding. The guards were in a particularly nasty mood today, and they gave Peter no quarter, yelling at him and flicking at his flanks with their whips if he moved too slowly.

As he trudged back and forth, from the oven and back, he felt his vision beginning to swim and bile pressing up against the back of his throat. He wondered how long it would take for him to collapse.

There was a sudden commotion to his right, and Peter realized that someone else had beaten him to it, collapsing onto the ground. It was Gilbert, the small boy that had watched over him the day after he had been whipped.

Peter looked over and gasped at how red the younger boy's face was, and quickly dropped his load. Despite his own dizziness, and the guards yelling at him to get back to work, he ran to Gilbert and stooped down next to him. Gently, Peter ran a hand over Gilbert's face.

The boy was gasping and he looked like he was having chills, despite his flushed countenance. His lips were chapped and cracked. Dehydration, Peter thought.

"Water!" gasped Gilbert from a throat that was dry and scratchy. The boy twitched, his arms flailing out, and Peter caught one of his hands, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"Please, he needs water!" Peter called to the guards, who were watching with mild interest.

They laughed at him. "We have none to spare!" they jeered, while filling their own cups from a readily-available barrel. "If the greedy boy is not satisfied with his own share of water, then he'll have to go without. Now get back to work, slave!"

Peter looked around, hoping that the other laborers would come to his aid, but they all averted their eyes, wishing to stay out of trouble. And since Jacob worked at another part of the castle, he couldn't help either. Peter looked down at Gilbert, who was now groaning with his eyes closed.

"This boy is sick and he needs water" Peter said, looking steadfastly at the head guard. Annoyed at the Narnian's impertinence, the guard stalked up to Peter, whip in his hands, but Peter refused to budge. Even as the large Telmarine loomed over him, Peter simply stared back and said, "He needs water, or he will faint. His work will go undone."

The head guard looked angry and raised his whip over Peter's head, and Peter, despite his brave exterior, felt afraid for his life. But the other guards were laughing, thinking the whole situation to be highly amusing.

"Come now, Captain," they said. "The boy wants to be the big protector, for the smaller one. Heart of gold, he has. Give him a splash of water."

The head guard, still looking angry, lowered his whip. He stalked off, and returned a moment later with a large wooden bucket. With a growl of annoyance, he threw the heavy object at Peter, who barely managed to catch it from knocking him in the head.

"If the boy wants water, _you_ can go fetch it for him. And you better hurry," the guard said with a nasty smile. "If the small one faints, it's _you_ who will be finishing up his work."

"Thank you for your kindness, sir," said Peter, barely managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Gritting his teeth, the boy struggled to his feet, riding out a wave of dizziness and pain.

Peter walked off as quickly as he could without falling over himself. The bucket seemed so heavy in his hands, and he had to heft it with both arms as he headed for the nearest well.

He was panting before he even made it halfway, and he often stumbled, having to catch himself on a wall or nearby column. Fortunately, no soldiers sought to hinder him in his quest, and the ordinary passer-bys just looked at him strangely and continued on their way.

When he reached the well, Peter let himself sink to his knees for a moment, wiping at his dripping brow with his sleeve. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet and lowered the bucket into the well. Pulling it up was much harder than he thought, but he managed it in the end.

The return trip was much slower. It was awkward, carrying the heavy bucket and trying not to spill it. He could feel the exhaustion of the last couple of days catch up to him, and the injuries on his back were positively _throbbing_, aggravated by hard labor and not enough rest. Once, he had to set his burden down as he fell on one knee and retched, his body shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

The thought of the poor boy, so like his own Edmund, kept him going. He finally got back to the construction site, and he hurried over to Gilbert. As the guards looked on, Peter gently wet the near-unconscious boy's lips with his fingers first, to revive him. Then, he helped Gilbert sit up as he fed water to him in his cupped hands.

"Are you alright now?" said Peter concernedly, rubbing Gilbert's back soothingly.

"Yes, oh yes," said Gilbert, who was looking much better. "Thank you."

Having witnessed the entire scene, the head guard walked over to them purposefully, a smirk on his lips.

"How touching that you care so much for him," he said, with a sneer. "But tell me, is it not wrong for a slave to drink while the masters go thirsty? You will have to fetch some more water for us, Narnian."

Peter glared up at the head guard, while the other soldiers laughed. He eyed the full barrel of water that was already provided for the soldiers.

"Oh no, not that," said the guard, already seeing where Peter was looking. "It is unseemly that we drink this stale stuff while fresh water can be brought to us. Go fetch us some water from the well."

"There is still plenty left," said Peter, defiantly pushing his bucket towards the Telmarine.

With a snarl, the guard kicked the bucket over, spilling the water over the ground. "We do not drink what is left over from slaves," he hissed menacingly. "Now pick yourself up."

With a groan, Peter pushed himself up on his hands and stood shakily. He managed to give Gilbert a reassuring look when the boy glanced at him with worry. Picking up the bucket, Peter walked away again, hearing them call after him "Better hurry back! Your bricks won't move themselves out of the oven."

When Peter reached the well for the second time, his teeth were clacking together with cold and his entire body was trembling. His head however, felt like it was on fire, and he could barely see through the haze in front of his eyes. He fell on his knees and retched again, bending over and clutching the ground with his hands. The injuries on the back side of his body, that should have already healed, felt like red-hot brands being pressed to his skin. Moaning wretchedly, he stayed on the ground until the shivering subsided.

Heaving himself up again, Peter lowered the bucket into the well, then had to use all of his strength to draw it back up. He lifted the bucket into his arms and started to head back, but was only able to take a few steps before his legs gave out and he fell to the ground, water splashing everywhere, and couldn't get up again.

Of all people, it was Caspian who found him, quite by accident. The well happened to be the prince's favorite thinking-place and he was paying it a visit, pocket full of pennies for throwing. He stopped short when he saw the blond form, sprawled on the ground, soaking wet and barely breathing.

"Hey!" he called out, not knowing the Narnian's name. The prince rushed to Peter's side and gently lifted the boy's head, alarmed when he felt a raging fever. "Are you alright?" he said, gently shaking the prone body.

Peter opened his eyes, barely making out the shape of the Telmarine prince. He was so cold and he couldn't stop shaking. "Prince… Caspian?" he murmured, before his eyes slipped shut again and his body went limp. The last thing Peter thought he felt was the prince lifting him up gently with his strong arms and caressing the side of his face while calling frantically for help.

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Thanks to everyone for reading my story! Sorry there's so little of Caspian/Peter, but there'll definitely be more coming up. Please review and let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed my story! You have no idea how happy it makes me, as an author, to know that you like my fiction. hugs all of u (also, sorry if I missed anyone in my replies)

WARNINGS: this story contains slash as well as several dark themes, such as non-consensual sex, violence, slavery, etc.

Notes: Sorry if this chapter is not as good or well-written as the previous ones. I am very tired…zzzz…

Chapter 5

_Be careful. He has a terrible fever…_

_Will he be alright, Dr. Cornelius?_

_I don't know…_

"Ohhh…" Peter moaned, his face scrunching up in pain. His head ached as if someone was pounding a stake through it. He tried to reach up to clutch at his throbbing temple, but his hand was gently caught and pushed back down. Where was he? There were so many voices.

_He won't stop shivering, Doctor_.

_That's alright. Just put another blanket on._

_Is he in any danger?_

Peter coughed. His throat was burning, burning. It felt so hot, but so cold at the same time. He felt like everything was spinning, even though his eyes were closed. It was like swimming through a sea of boiling water. A hand, slim and cool, rested on his sweaty forehead and it felt like an anchor, a lifeline.

"Susan?" he croaked. "D-don't go. Please?"

_He's delirious. _

_Poor lad. Hand me the towel, if you please, my Prince._

A cold cloth was placed on his head and it felt wonderful. Someone was tilting his head up, easing open his mouth. A bowl of some warm liquid was brought to his lips. At first, he clamped his teeth shut, but the gentle hands were insistent, brushing light fingers over his lips until he opened up and swallowed. It was some kind of meat broth, and his body welcomed the protein it was so lacking.

_He looks starved. You can count his ribs._

The voices were so loud, reverberating. He was so tired. He fell asleep, but was plagued by nightmares, horrible dreams full of demons and monsters, all with the face of the Telmarine king. Dark and menacing, they chased him, shrieking and clamoring as he ran. He cried out in his sleep.

_What is wrong with him, Doctor? Why does he cry out?_

_It must be a nightmare, my prince._

Miraz's mocking laughter followed him everywhere, and blistering fires rose from the ground where he ran. His feet were bare as he fled, gasping in fear. Nothing to protect him from the scorching heat. Such screams! The shrieks and howls of relentless wraiths and monsters.

_Shhh, it's alright. No one will harm you here._

And then… silence.

He was standing in a field. The grass was emerald-green beneath his feet. In the distance, he could hear a river, the sound of water so sweet and clear to his ears. Then, a whisper on the breeze, "For as long as the water flows, for as long as the sun rises each day, for as long as the mountains stand tall and still, I will love you. My king, my love…"

Peter closed his eyes and felt a kiss upon his lips.

……………………………………

………………………………….

……………………………

It was nearly nighttime when Peter awoke. His fever had gone down, and the terrible aches in his body had also disappeared. His eyes opened, and he was confused when he found himself in completely strange surroundings. He peeked under the covers and saw that he, _again_, had woken up naked.

Peter did not notice Caspian at first, who was sitting in a chair next to the bed. The prince had been watching over him for quite awhile, hoping to see him stir. He watched in fascination as the pale eyelids fluttered open to reveal blue eyes, looking hazily about in confusion and tiredness. A plump mouth parted slightly and a pink tongue darted out to lick at the chapped lips. A hand reached up and brushed back messy blond hair.

Then, Peter turned and saw the prince. As anyone, when waking in a strange bed with no clothes on, being stared at intently by a stranger, consternation was the first thing that registered in Peter's mind. He gasped, snatched up the sheets and clutched them to his chest while scooting backwards on the bed until he bumped the wall on the other side.

"Wh-where am I?" he stammered. "What am I doing here?"

"Be calm, you are safe here," said Caspian, standing up and moving towards Peter in what he hoped was a non-threatening way. He tried to put a hand on Peter's forehead to check his temperature, but Peter immediately jerked away, hands still holding the sheets in a death-grip.

"Why am I not wearing anything?" he demanded, eyes wide and frightened, darting around the room for an escape route. "What…what did you do to me?"

"I found you, fainted by the well," said Caspian, a bit put off by Peter's behavior. "You had a fever, so I brought you here. This is a healing ward."

Shivering slightly, Peter took another peek at himself under the covers. "You _bathed_ me?"

"Well, _I_ didn't," said Caspian, his face coloring rapidly. "I had someone else do it. Look, there're some clothes there the chambermaid laid out for you." The prince pointed at the foot of the bed, where there was a pair of trousers and a fresh shirt. Caspian turned around quickly, his blush deepening as Peter snatched up the clothing and began to dress himself.

"What did you do with my own things?" said Peter awkwardly, after a minute.

"Had them burned, of course," said Caspian, turning back around to see Peter standing fully dressed.

"Burned them! Why?"

"Well, they quite filthy."

"They _weren't_ filthy!" Peter huffed indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you had no right getting rid of them!"

The prince decided that he was rather annoyed at how the Narnian was speaking to him. This wasn't exactly how he expected their first conversation to go.

"Shouldn't you be a little more grateful?" Caspian said haughtily. "It's not usually the practice for the prince to rescue a slave. If it was one of the guard that found you, they would probably have just given you more of those stripes across your back. How did you get them anyway, by shirking your duties?"

Of course, Caspian was not usually so dishonorable as to mock another's injuries. If he had been in a better frame of mind, he certainly would not have spoken as such, and he did regret his words the moment he said them.

Peter paled instantly. The prince's blunt words reminded him, with unpleasant clarity, of the entire humiliating and painful experience at the hands of Miraz's guards. Having such a sore wound opened up again, and by the arrogant prince, no less, made fury bubble up within him. He was doubly humiliated at the memory that the prince had actually seen him during it, all trussed up and vulnerable.

"Oh, so you want know how I got these?" Peter asked, glaring at the prince. He angrily yanked down a shoulder of this shirt, exposing a long pink welt. The prince winced at the sight. "I got these because your father tried to force himself on me and I had the _impudence _to refuse him! If that's what your majesty meant by 'shirking my duties,' then yes, I suppose I did!"

"My _father_?" said the Prince, frowning and utterly confused.

"He is a sick, twisted tyrant," Peter snapped, his blue eyes alight with ferocity, "and by the looks of it, the acorn didn't fall far from the tree."

"Don't you _dare_ talk about my father!" Caspian hissed, his hands instantly balling into fists. "At least I wasn't raised as some Narnian peasant's bastard son, and was only taught how to roll around in the dirt!"

Peter usually liked to think of himself as a rather tolerant and forgiving person. It came naturally to him, being the oldest out of four constantly squabbling siblings. However, all thoughts of being forbearing were thrown to the wind when the utterly conceited _pig_ of a prince slandered his heritage as well as his family. Tolerance was the last thing on mind as he leapt at Caspian with a yell.

He tackled the prince to the floor, throwing punches wherever he could. The prince however, was no weakling and was obviously just as angry. Caspian gave as good he got, punching, jabbing, and kicking. Soon, the boys were rolling around the room, knocking over furniture and spitting angry curses at each other, making a terrific racket.

It was the chambermaid who rushed in and found them going at it, and she screamed shrilly for help, clasping her hands to her bosom. Luckily for Peter, it was Cornelius who arrived first, and not one of the royal bodyguards.

Caspian's old tutor ran into the room just as the prince pinned Peter underneath him and was drawing his fist back for a blow to the face, and Peter had both hands wrapped around Caspian's neck.

"For shame, my prince!" cried Dr. Cornelius, rushing over and pulling him off of the other boy. "You would assault one who is sick and bedridden?"

"What!" Caspian gasped indignantly, rubbing at his bruises. "Look at him! He is neither sick nor bedridden!" In truth, Peter did look a great deal better than before. The short rest he had taken, in a proper bed, had clearly done him good.

"Well then," said Peter, glaring up at him from the floor, "since his royal highness has declared me fit and healthy, I'd like to be escorted back to the warehouse, if you please. I'm sure I have work to do."

"Yes, yes," sighed Dr. Cornelius, giving Caspian a very stern look. "I think that is for the best."

…………………….

………………………

It was the next morning, when Peter was out fetching kindling, that he saw the prince again. By chance, Caspian was sitting at the well again when Peter was passing by, not seeing the prince at first.

"He is not my father," Caspian called out, startling Peter so that he almost dropped the wood he was carrying.

"What?" Peter said, stopping in his tracks to stare at the prince.

"King Miraz," said Caspian, not quite looking at the other boy, but staring wistfully into the distance, "He is not my father, but my uncle. My father died when I was only five years old."

"Oh," said Peter quietly, realizing what Caspian was talking about, and he was suddenly very ashamed of the way he had acted. He shrugged off the bundle of kindling from his shoulder and set it on the ground with a sigh. "I am so very sorry. I should not have insulted your father's memory. I didn't know…"

"It's just that…it's been so long since I've even thought about my father," said Caspian, and Peter could see the lost, tired look in his eyes. "When you mentioned him yesterday, it was like opening an old wound, really."

"I don't know what to say," said Peter sadly, not able to look Caspian in the face. In truth, the Narnian knew quite well what the prince was feeling. It had not been so long ago that he lost his own father.

Had they been in the Telmarine court, protocol would have demanded that Peter apologized on bended knee while offering to slay himself. Such was the practice when apologizing to a prince, but Peter had never been one for protocol. At that moment, Peter didn't see Caspian as the prince of the great Telmarine kingdom. Peter only saw Caspian as a teenaged boy, much like himself, awkward and lonely. _Kindred spirits_.

"Please forgive me for my words. I spoke out of anger and I didn't mean them." Peter said gently, laying a hand on Caspian's shoulder, lightly squeezing. The prince's eyes widened at the gesture, as it was also against protocol for a slave to touch a prince in such a familiar manner, but Caspian decided he rather liked it. The weight of Peter's hand was warm and reassuring.

"Well, you didn't know," said Caspian with a small smile, and he looked up into Peter's eyes, mesmerized by the blueness.

"He must have been very important to you. I'm sure he was a great man ," said Peter, finding himself strangely attracted to the way Caspian's face was tilted up to look into his, and how the prince's dark hair was gently fluttering in the breeze.

"He was," said Caspian, unable to take his eyes off of Peter.

"And umm, _thank_ you. For helping me. You're right, I wasn't very grateful, was I? I'm sure I'd be half-dead or worse by now, if you hadn't found me and taken care of me. Thank you for your kindness."

"Believe me, it was no burden to take care of you," whispered Caspian, standing up and moving closer. "I'm sorry," he said with a light laugh, "I don't even know your name."

"It's Peter."

"Peter…" the prince murmured. He had never been this close in proximity to the other boy before, and he loved that he could see the small freckles on Peter's neck, how his bangs lay against the fair brow, how curvy his lips were.

Peter stared in confusion as Caspian slowly brought his hands up to cup the other boy's face. Noting that the Narnia was a few inches shorter than he was, the prince bent down slightly and kissed him sweetly on the mouth, sucking gently on Peter's soft lips, loving how the other boy gave a little sigh and tilted his head back. _He smells of summer, golden and warm_, Caspian mused, _just as I imagined_.

Unfortunately, the romantic moment was ruined when Peter suddenly shoved Caspian in the chest, pushing him off roughly.

"What-!" gasped the Narnian boy, scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. "What do you think you're doing?!"

Peter didn't give Caspian a chance to reply as he promptly pulled back his arm and punched the prince hard in the face, sending him sprawling on the ground.

"OWW!" cried Caspian, holding a hand to his cheek. "What was that for?!"

"Oooh, how dare you!" Peter gasped angrily, his hands clenched in rage, looking quite trespassed upon. "How _dare_ you take such liberties with me? You…you absolute pig!"

"Well…I-!" sputtered Caspian, getting back on his feet. "I didn't think you'd mind! You looked as if you wanted me to kiss you…"

"I _didn't_ want you to kiss me!" Peter shouted. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were blazing. "Did I _say_ I wanted you to kiss me?! No, I don't believe I did, in fact!"

"Well, I presumed-"

"How _dare_ you presume!"

"I just thought-!"

"How _dare_ you think!"

Caspian found himself under a barrage of blows as Peter advanced on him, fists flying.

"Would you stop!" Caspian yelped, dodging. He grabbed Peter's hands before the next blow could land and sneakily hooked a foot around Peter's ankle. He yanked, and the boy went tumbling down. In a second, Caspian landed on top of him, straddling his waist and effectively pinning the other boy to the ground.

As Peter struggled and panted below him, glaring daggers up at the prince, Caspian burst out laughing.

"You know," Caspian said merrily. "You really are quite adorable when you're angry."

Peter's face turned even more bright red. "I am not! How dare-…mmph!"

Caspian successfully quieted him up by kissing him again, long and hard, chest heaving with passion.

When their lips parted after a while, Peter was looking decidedly less furious and actually rather dazed. "You did it again! You…beast," he mumbled, in a half-hearted attempt to be angry. Caspian noticed that Peter was no longer struggling.

"Did you hate it?" said the prince, grinning.

"No, not really," admitted Peter hesitantly. "Would you do it again?"

In response, Caspian bent down and captured Peter's mouth in yet another kiss, fingers threading through blond hair to keep his head steady.

Peter's eyes fluttered closed as he let himself get lost in the pleasurable, warm sensations that he had never felt before. It was so strange, he thought, but so nice, the feeling of lips moving against his own. His heart was pounding, and heat was gathering in his stomach. Such a strange, wonderful sensation…

Then, a cold shiver passed through him as Peter realized who he was so

passionately kissing. The Telmarine prince. _Telmarine_…

Gently, he pulled away, putting his hand over Caspian's lips when the prince tried to kiss him again.

"What's the matter?" Caspian asked, mouthing Peter's fingertips, confused when Peter turned his head away. "Peter?"

"I can't do this," Peter whispered, conflicting emotions shining in his eyes. "I have to go." He moved out from underneath the prince, quickly standing up and walking away, barely remembering to pick up the bundle of firewood as he practically ran.

"Wait!" Caspian called after him, but Peter didn't even turn around.

……………………………..

……………………………..

"Your Majesty," said Glozelle, his voice firm but apprehensive, his voice echoing in the stillness of the chamber. Miraz stood at the balcony, his arms spread with his hands resting on top of the banister. In his dark, billowing robe, he looked like a giant bat against the sky.

"What is it, General?"

The general cleared his throat nervously before speaking. "The Queen Prunaprismia, she desires your presence, sire."

There was no answer from the dark king, who continued to stare out across the courtyard, his back silent and unmoving.

"Her majesty was hoping you would go to see her, since the time is almost near for the birthing," the general tried again.

The king was silent for a while. "The Narnian boy," said Miraz, as if completely ignoring the Glozelle's previous words. "How does he fare? How are his injuries?"

"He has made a full recovery, my king," said the general, his brow wrinkling in uncertainty.

"Good," the king said, drawing out the syllable with his tongue, and Glozelle could feel him smiling sadistically, even though he could not see the king's face. "You know what I want you to do, General. See that he is brought to me tomorrow."

Glozelle looked down, his lips pursing together and his chest tightening. A wave of sympathy and guilt washed over him. "He is just a boy, sire," he said softly, hesitantly.

"And is not every boy, every girl, every man and woman, every infant in this kingdom under _my_ rule?" said the king, his voice ringing dangerously in the general's ears.

"Yes, your majesty," the general conceded quickly, bowing his head. "Your orders shall be followed."

"See that it is so, my good general. I think it is time for me and the boy to have another little…_chat._"

……………………………………..

…………………………………..

"How's he doing?" asked Susan, looking at the pale bandaged form on the bed.

"He is recovering nicely," said the medic, nodding at Susan. "He should be up and out of bed in a few days, hopefully."

The Telmarine herald, the one who was shot in the neck with her arrow, lay sleeping, his throat bandaged up. Lord Arlian was his name, the only bit of information they had managed to get out of him so far.

"What are your plans for the Telmarine, my lady?" said the Narnian soldier who was standing behind Susan.

"Information," replied Susan. "And if he is as important as he looks, perhaps he will make us a fine hostage."

"And the troops?" said the soldier. "What are your orders?"

"We move out soon," said Susan tersely. "We will meet with the rest of our people at the Shuddering Wood."

She left the sickroom, heading outdoors to walk back to her own house. When she arrived, she found Lucy sitting despondently outside of Edmund's room.

"He won't come out," Lucy said, her bright eyes shining with sadness.

"It's alright, Darling," Susan sighed. "He'll come out when he's ready to. Come." Susan led Lucy to the kitchen. She set out a bowl of soup for Lucy, and one for Edmund on the dining table.

Smiling gently, she stroked Lucy's hair as the little girl slurped her soup.

"I'm glad you're back, Susan," said Lucy in between bites. A noise made them both look up. It was Edmund, who sullenly sat at his place at the table, scowling and still refusing to meet Susan's eyes.

"I have something to tell you both," said Susan, as Edmund also started spooning up his soup. "The army can't stay in this village for much longer. We will have to leave soon."

"You're leaving again?" cried Lucy in consternation, while Edmund scowled deeper, his hand tightening around the spoon so that his knuckles turned white.

"Well, yes," said Susan, but she was smiling. "But you are both coming with me. We'll be together."

Lucy gasped in excitement while Edmund looked suspiciously at Susan. "And where are you taking us?" he asked, his voice hoarse and low. "To the war? Get us all killed, I suppose."

"I won't let harm come to either of you!" Susan declared fiercely. "We will be going to the Shuddering Wood. The centaurs will keep you safe."

"_Centaurs_?" cried Lucy, her smile wide and eager. "They exist! See, Edmund, I told you! They exist!"

"They certainly do!" said Susan, beaming at how happy her little sister was. "And dwarves, and fauns, and satyrs too! The Old Narnians have all gathered to help us. The tide is turning, and we will win this war."

As Lucy and Susan happily chattered about Talking Beasts, Edmund simply looked down into his soup, the very idea of Susan going to war making him sick to the stomach. He hated that Susan was endangering them. He hated her for being so brave when he was not. He hated himself for being unable to forgive her, even though he had spent the last two years hoping to see her again. A cold, dark feeling settled in his heart.

Notes: Thank u all so much for sticking with this story! Please review and let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

ARGH, WAT AM I DOING, WRITING SLASH WHEN I SHOULD BE STUDYING FOR MY EXAMS?! bonks self on head repeatedly

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: **BAD STUFF HAPPENS TO PETER!!** (but it's ok, so please read anyway!)

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Chapter 6

That night, as Peter was settling down to sleep in the bunkhouse, one of Caspian's private guard came to the slave's quarters to deliver a message. He was young, and much kinder-looking than the soldiers who usually guarded the slaves.

"I have a message, from the Prince Caspian," said the guard, whose name was Rynelf, and held out a folded piece of parchment to Peter, who hastily rose from his pallet.

Peter, all too aware of the curious eyes of everyone else in the room, quickly took it. He opened the letter and scanned over the words on the expensive white parchment. Swallowing nervously, his face flushing, he folded it back up and handed it to the guard.

"I'm afraid you'll have to take it back, sir," Peter said, noting that Jacob had already read the letter over his shoulder and was now looking at him with slightly worried frown.

"Why?" asked Rynelf.

"I can't read," said Peter, pushing the paper into the man's hand when he refused to take it.

"Really? But I thought you said…" Gilbert mumbled from his corner of the room, but was silenced with a stern look from Jacob.

"Would you like me to read it for you, then?" said Rynelf, unfolding the paper once again.

"Perhaps another time," said Peter, his voice getting harder. "I'm very tired, you see, and I have to work tomorrow."

"Prince Caspian desires that you meet with him in the north tower tonight," replied Rynelf. "That is the gist of the letter. Will you come? His majesty bade me stay until you gave an answer."

Before Peter could speak, one of the overseers, who had been eavesdropping, stalked over with an angry snarl. "The slaves do not leave the warehouse after dark! Those are the orders, and I'll not be making any exceptions!"

"These are Prince Caspian's wishes," said Rynelf calmly, holding up the paper in his hands, not in the least bit intimidated. "I will personally escort the Narnian to the north tower myself, so it will be no trouble to you."

"Now sir," Jacob spoke up, a hand on Peter's shoulder. "I'm sure Peter is exhausted from the day's work. Surely, it would be unseemly to drag the boy from his rest?"

Peter nodded at the old man's words, his eyes lowered and his lips pressed together.

Rynelf sighed. "His majesty said he will wait for you until you come. The whole night, if need be."

Peter shuffled uncomfortably but did not answer, Jacob's hand tightening reassuringly on his shoulder.

"Alright then," said Rynelf, taking Peter's silence for an answer. "As you wish." He turned to leave.

"A wise decision, my son," Jacob whispered into Peter's ear. "It is better for you not to be involved…"

Peter watched the retreating back of the guard, part of him wanting to stay and part of him wanting to see Caspian. Who knew when he would get the chance again? Just as Rynelf crossed the threshold, Peter shrugged off Jacob's hand and rushed forward.

"Wait!" he called. "Take me to the prince."

…………………………………………………………………….

……………………………………………………………………

He was led up many stairwells and dark passages until he finally reached the north tower. Just as the young guard had said, Caspian was waiting for him at the roof, looking up at the night sky and the stars.

The prince turned when he saw Peter, his face lighting up with joy. As the guard politely bowed himself out, Caspian rushed to Peter and took the boy's hands in his. There was a breathless pause between them, and Peter felt, although he was reluctant to come before, how inexplicably excited and _happy_ he was to see Caspian.

With a smile, Caspian leaned in and kissed Peter, and this time, Peter did not resist. They broke apart, and with a blissful chuckle, Caspian pulled the other boy into his arms, embracing him tightly.

"Why did you leave, earlier today?" the prince whispered into his ear, his hands stroking gently over Peter's arms and shoulders. Peter pulled back but did not respond, and Caspian could see that his eyes were troubled.

"Peter? What is it?" said Caspian concernedly.

Peter sighed and walked past Caspian to stare over the parapet, leaning against the cold stone. He looked out, mildly surprised at how high up they were. He could see the Great River from where he stood, and somewhere beyond that, he knew was home. _Home_.

"I wasn't sure whether to come here at first," he said, letting his hair fall into his face so that Caspian couldn't see how conflicted he was. "We shouldn't be together like this, you know. It just isn't right."

"It isn't right," Caspian agreed, walking up behind Peter and placing a hand on the boy's lower back. "But I cannot help the way I feel, and I hoped you would feel the same for me. I know what you are thinking, that I am prince and you are a slave, but it doesn't matter that you are one, not to me."

Peter's eyes snapped up, suddenly angry. "What would you know about it?" he said harshly, pushing Caspian's hand away. "About slavery? About those people down there, working like dogs, _suffering_, to build monuments for your king? What would you know, _Prince Caspian_, of such things, high up in your tower, watching over us poor, lowly _slaves_?"

"It's 'Caspian', not 'Prince,' Peter," said Caspian, staring unwaveringly into the other boy's face. "I have had enough of being called 'Prince' by everyone."

"Is this a game to you?" demanded Peter with a heated look, as if he suddenly figured something out. "I hardly know you, yet here you are, meeting me secretly under the stars, embracing me as if I were already yours. Does this excite you _because_ I am a slave and you like having power over me?"

Peter shuddered at his own words, realizing how closely he had come to describing Miraz. "Let me tell you, Caspian," he snapped when the prince opened his mouth as if to speak, "I do not think this improper because I am intimidated by your royalty, but because you are a _Telmarine_; your people have enslaved, killed, and destroyed the lives of mine and a few kisses in the dark will not erase that!"

If the prince was surprised by Peter's fervent outburst, he didn't show it. "I am sorry," said Caspian softly, who had not moved or changed his expression. The prince moved to take Peter in his arms, not surprised when the Narnian boy shrank away.

"I am _not_ my uncle," said Caspian after a moment of silence in which Peter tried to compose himself emotionally. "I am nothing like him, and neither was my father."

He waited until Peter looked up at him again before continuing. "And you must forgive me for speaking misspeaking. I do not see you as a slave, but as a person. You fascinate me, not because I have power over you, but because you, Peter, have power over me.

"All my life, ever since my mother died, a year after the death of my father, people here have treated me like a strange and fragile pet, a royal burden to be polite and aloof to. Precious few have treated me like a _person_. Someone to tell the truth to, someone to like for _himself_ and not his princely title, someone to reprimand when wrong, without fear of being punished."

Caspian took a step towards Peter, glad when the boy did not move away. Two more steps, and Caspian was standing chest-to-chest with him. "And I am… captivated by you, because with you, I am not a prince, but simply," he brushed a lock of hair out of Peter's eyes, "a _person_, human and faulty. And I love how that feels. And I love how you are, Peter, bold, audacious, and so very passionate. "

Peter let out a little breath, staring up at Caspian, entranced by his words. The prince looked so beautiful in the moonlight, yet so truthful and vulnerable. He tilted his head back, as if expecting the kiss before it happened, and received Caspian's lips upon his own.

The prince's hands wrapped around his waist, and Peter let his own hands slide up Caspian's chest to wrap around his broad shoulders. He let out a small exhale of pleasure as he felt Caspian's tongue gently press against his lips. Shyly, hesitantly, not really knowing what to expect, Peter opened up to him and felt Caspian enter his mouth, slick and hot. He almost melted against the taller boy, clinging to him for he was sure he would lose his footing and fall, so great were the strange tingling sensations running through his body.

_So much better than that first kiss by the well_, Peter thought.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, trembling at the barely-suppressed urges.

"I can see the stars in your eyes," whispered Caspian.

A small laugh escaped from Peter. "Are you trying to seduce me?" he teased.

"I would think that it's obvious," murmured Caspian fondly, nuzzling against Peter's cheek.

The prince drew back slightly and cupped Peter's face in his hands, fingers buried in soft hair. "I am so very fond of you, Peter," he said.

"I-I think I am very fond of you as well, Caspian," Peter replied, smiling.

Slowly, Caspian pushed forward until Peter was backed up against a wall and he was pressed to Peter's body. His eyes shining with longing, Caspian stroked Peter's face and neck, pressing kisses to his forehead, his lips, his cheeks, his throat.

Peter, utterly unfamiliar with the hot waves of desire that were coursing through his body, closed his eyes and moaned helplessly at Caspian's ministrations. His breath came in short pants as he felt his body _yearn_ for something he couldn't identify.

It was when Caspian unfastened the button holding the top of his shirt together, while simultaneously pressing his groin into Peter's, that Peter's eyes snapped open in shock. With a startled noise, Peter pushed Caspian away and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, his shaking hands re-fastening his shirt.

"What do you mean? I was just-" Caspian started to say, confused, but stopped when he took a good look at Peter. The timidity, the trembling limbs, the utter _bewilderment_ shining in those blue eyes made Caspian realize.

"Are you…is this…?" Caspian faltered, "Have you not been with anyone before?"

"Of course I haven't!" said Peter. "Have you?"

Caspian gazed at him in surprise. _How could that be, with the way he looks?_ "Yes," he replied dumbly. "Yes, I have."

"Oh," said Peter, his voice hollow. His head drooped and he didn't what to think.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," Caspian said quickly. "I would never want to hurt you, you know that, right? You trust me, don't you?" He looked hopefully at Peter.

"Yes, I do trust you," said Peter softly after awhile. He felt Caspian envelope him in another embrace and press a chaste kiss to his hair. "It's your uncle I'm afraid of," he whispered, his voice muffled into Caspian's chest.

"Miraz?" said Caspian, pulling back and looking at Peter worriedly. The prince briefly remembered a snatch of a similar conversation he had with Peter the day before, and his brow creased in confusion.

"It's nothing!" said Peter hastily. "It's late and I should go." He pulled free and started to walk to the door leading to the staircase.

"Wait!" Caspian said. "I want to see you again. Please?"

"You shall," said Peter, turning to look at him before stepping through the door and descending the stairwell.

Rynelf met him at the bottom of the stairs and he escorted Peter out.

………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………..

They met again the next night and the night after that, up at the tower. They sat next to each other, holding hands in the dark and gazing up at the stars. Caspian would tell him the names of each one, naming the shapes of animals and objects. Peter would laugh and give them different names, _Narnian _names.

If it was cold, Caspian would share his cloak. The secret kisses they stole in the dark chased away Peter's dark thoughts about Miraz. When it grew late, he would be escorted back to the bunkhouse by the ever-loyal Rynelf.

Back in the dirty slaves' quarters, Peter would have to come down from his romantic cloud, faced with the reality of his life. Jacob would be waiting up for him, with a disapproving look on his wrinkled face. When Peter asked why it was so wrong for him to be with Caspian, Jacob refused to answer.

…………………………………………………

………………………………………………………

It was after the fifth night with Caspian, when Rynelf was escorting him back, that they were intercepted by Miraz's men. The two guards were not in a happy mood, having first been to fetch Peter at the slaves' quarters but not finding him, then being told that the boy was with the prince and finding the prince's quarters were empty as well.

"He is to come with us," they demanded, laying their hands on Peter.

"But he is under the protection of Prince Caspian!" Rynelf said staunchly, refusing to stray from his duty to see Peter back safely.

One of the guards sneered. "You will do well to remember your place, soldier," he said. "Our orders come from the king." Peter felt as though the words were the sound of death's footsteps.

………………………………………………….

……………………………………………………

Miraz circled slowly around the chair where Peter sat, the long fur cloak dragging behind him on the floor. The Narnian boy gripped the armrests in white hands, staring up at the king with defiant blue eyes, a mask for the sick fear in the pit of his stomach.

Back and forth, back and forth went the king, his eyes fixed on the boy's fair face. Two guards were standing behind Peter's chair, hands on their weapons, silent as statues but ever watchful. Apparently, Miraz did not fancy being lashed out against this time.

"I could give anything you desire," said the king, his voice silky smooth, the Telmarine accent heavy on his tongue. "Gold. Riches. Servants of your own."

The king reached out and stroked Peter's cheek with the tips of his fingers, making the boy jerk his face away with a grimace. _So cold, his touch. So different…_

"Become my paramour," said Miraz, "and I will make you a prince. You will be exalted above all other courtiers, and _I_, my fair Narnian boy, would be your slave," he leered, showing Peter all his teeth, "_in bed_."

Peter glared up at the king, his lips pressed tightly together, refusing to say anything. Miraz chuckled lowly at his display of quiet anger.

"I burn with desire for you," Miraz continued, straightening and walking to Peter's right, circling the boy once again. The king stopped behind the chair's back and bent down to talk into Peter's ear, quietly, mockingly.

"Demand what you will of your king, Peter. Anything you desire, as long as you become my lover. I would move the moon from her seat in the sky, just to satisfy you."

He slowly ran his tongue along the curve of Peter's ear, and the boy pulled away with a groan of disgust.

"Would you become a better man?" he snapped. "One who doesn't need to feel powerful by killing and raping the innocent?"

The king laughed and straightened up, a laugh that was anything but amused, and it sent shivers up Peter's spine. The last vestiges of the warmth that Caspian instilled in him were the only thing keeping him from panicking. _Back in the spider's lair, so sick, so twisted, and oh so wrong_.

"I could have you killed for your boldness, you know," said the king, circling back around so that he faced Peter. "I could have your lovely head cut off and put on a spike, those pretty blue eyes of yours left for the crows to pick at."

"You don't frighten me," the boy hissed angrily, his hands squeezing the armrests to stop himself from lunging at the king.

The king laughed again, his lips twisting upwards coldly. "Of course not," he said, shrugging his shoulders in a sarcastic show of humility. "I am just one man. What can I do to frighten such a brave lad such as you, hm?"

Miraz looked thoughtfully up at the two armed guards standing behind Peter, the same ones who had whipped him under Miraz's command. The look in the king's eyes darkened with sadistic mirth, and Peter, despite how courageous he tried to sound, shrank back in his seat.

"Captain," said the King, addressing the soldier on the right. "Is the boy not exceptionally lovely?"

"Yes, your majesty," replied the Captain dutifully.

"Skin soft and smooth as a child's, such brilliant eyes, such lovely hair," drawled the king, sliding a hand through Peter's golden locks to emphasize his words.

"Yes, your majesty."

"Tell me, my good Captain, about the good Telmarine soldiers living in the barracks here. These dutiful men have been at their post for quite awhile, haven't they?"

"A whole month, sire."

"Oh my, a whole month away from their families. Away from their wives, I suppose?

"Yes, your majesty," came the mechanical answer.

"It must be so lonely for those soldiers, so cold at night, with no one to keep them company. And for you as well, Captain, am I right?"

"S-sire?"

"Do you not think it appropriate, Captain, to reward these loyal soldiers for their hard work? To give them a chance to sate their…needs?" the king chuckled darkly, his hand combing through Peter's hair, his thumb stroking over his face. "Hmm, such a lovely boy."

With a pointed look at Peter, the king gave a curt nod to the two guards, and they immediately strode forth and grabbed Peter by the arms, lifting him out of the chair.

"No…!" Peter gasped in horror, his eyes widening as he realized what the king was suggesting. Too shocked to struggle, he hung limply in their arms, his face pale and staring.

"So what will it be, fair slave?" said the king, his eyes hardening as he gazed at Peter. "A night with me, or a night with the Telmarine cavalry?" The black eyes glittered, staring at Peter, mentally stripping him of his clothes. The boy felt an angry flush rise to his neck. His heart thudded in his chest.

"I know no curse," said Peter through clenched teeth, "vile enough for you, my king. You are _disgusting_!"

Miraz frowned terribly. An angry sneer twisted his lips and he bared his teeth. "Perhaps a few hours in the barracks tonight will teach you to sweeten your words, little slave," he hissed. Miraz nodded to the guards, and they started to drag Peter, struggling, from the room.

"Oh, and Captain?"

"Yes, your majesty?" they paused in the doorway.

"Do try not to mark his face."

……………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………

Peter tried to free himself all the way out of the king's chambers. It was when they were dragging him across the courtyard towards the barracks, and he could hear the soldiers' drunk, raucous singing in the distance, that he began to _really_ struggle, the terrifying reality of the situation dawning on his shock-hazed mind.

He began to shout, trying to dig his heels in and yank his arms free, his voice echoing off of bare stone.

Without pausing for even a minute, they pulled him, kicking and fighting into the soldier's living quarters. The noise of their shouting and laughing assaulted Peter's ears and the stench of drunken breath, his nostrils. The guards shoved him into the middle of the room, and he stumbled, falling into a table and quickly righting himself. Blue eyes frantically darted around, searching for an escape, but they formed a ring around him, laughing, taunting.

No one noticed Rynelf, Caspian's personal guard, slip out of the house, his face pale with shock. The rest of the soldiers were too preoccupied to see the man run into the rain, towards the General's quarters, to summon Glozelle.

The first man who came towards Peter was met with a fierce blow from the boy. Trembling with fear and rage, Peter then pushed the man away from him as hard as he could, and the soldier fell the floor with a cut lip.

They laughed at him, amused at his show of defiance. Three more men advanced on him and Peter lashed out, kicking and hitting, taking down two of them. The third one wrestled him into an iron grip.

There was an animalistic glint of panic in Peter's eyes, as he panted and gasped, his hair wild, his cheeks and mouth red.

"Why so reluctant, boy?" growled the man that was holding him, and Peter realized with a cold tremor, that it was the head guard who had refused Gilbert water. "We won't hurt you too badly. You're the king's favored, after all." The wine on his breath sickened Peter, and he thought he would vomit.

The throng cheered and roared, stamping their feet. Too long, have they been kept there, training and marching under the hot son, straining under the harsh Telmarine military treatment, venturing into the wilds to risk their lives, and now they finally had an outlet for their frustrations.

"Throw him to me!" someone yelled, and Peter was flung into the arms of another man, so burly and large that the boy could not hope to fight him.

"No need to be bashful!" he said, leering at the floundering boy. He grabbed Peter's jaw in a bruising grip and forced a kiss on him, a painful biting of lips that was more punishing than affectionate.

Peter cried out with a disgusted groan, red marks appearing on his chin. The boy struggled frantically and managed to free an arm. He slammed his elbow into the man's stomach and the soldier roared with anger, giving Peter a terrific blow on the head that had his ears ringing.

Cruel hands tore at the neck of his shirt so that it fell half off and fingers were everywhere, gouging, pinching, clawing.

The frightened, choked cries that were coming from Peter's throat did not sound like his own voice. He was thrown again to someone else, stumbling over his feet. He struggled furiously, running purely on adrenaline, chest heaving and tears blinding his eyesight.

They hit him again, twisting his arms behind his back and laying blows to his torso until he hung limply in their arms, too exhausted to fight. He was barely conscious when the hauled him over to the table, which still held the emptied tankards of ale and wine.

They bent Peter over the table, his abused torso scraping on the rough surface. One of them held on to both his wrists, straight out in front of him so that he couldn't move his arms at all.

There was a weight against his back and he felt a rough hand wandering about his body, stroking and groping. He craned his neck around and saw the head guard grinning lecherously down at him.

Peter snapped to full awareness as he realized what was about to happen. "Oh, no…" he moaned, struggling desperately. "Please, don't! If you've any mercy in your heart-!"

He was silenced by a quick blow to the mouth. As the jeers of the soldiers grew louder around them, the head guard leaned over Peter's body to whisper scathingly into his ear. "Do you know what you will look like by the time this night is over?"

The guard slid a hand up Peter's spine, grabbing the remains of his white shirt and tearing it off viciously, eliciting a terrified sob from the boy. "You will look like a creature half-dead, barely able to move, barely able to breathe. Dumb with pain…" Peter laid his cheek against the hard surface below him and clenched his eyes shut, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself. "…deaf, and blind, and mute from screaming. You won't be lovely anymore when we are done with you, that's for sure."

Then, sickeningly, deliberately, the guard brought his finger to his mouth, licking it, wetting the digit, watching sadistically as Peter's eyes grew larger with terror. With the other hand, he fumbled with the front of the boy's trousers.

Peter was gasping, trying to gulp air into his lungs, jerking, shaking. He never felt so powerless, unable to stop what was happening to him.

The horrible stench of wine, the raucous yelling…. He was screaming, pulling desperately at his imprisoned arms, doing anything, _anything_ to get the man off as he felt hands on his bare flesh.

Then, a voice, louder than the entire clamor, disrupted the scene. "ENOUGH!" roared the General Glozelle, storming his way into the throng.

Almost instantly, the din died down in the face of the furious general, the gasps and whimpers of the boy being the only noise in the room.

"You!" the general demanded, pointing at the man who held Peter down, his voice like thunder. "Release the Narnian boy."

It was as if Glozelle's very voice released Peter, so quickly did the soldier snatch his hands off.

With a quiet groan, Peter slid off the table and crashed to the floor, immediately curling into himself. He did not eve recognize the loud, harsh sobs that were being wrenched from his raw throat.

It was Rynelf, who had walked in with the general, that rushed forward to help him. The young soldier shrugged off his own cloak, wet with rain, and wrapped it around the shivering figure, cradling the boy to himself.

"It's….it's you," Peter gasped hoarsely, hands clutching desperately at Rynelf's arms. "But why?"

"I have stood by and watched idly for far too long," said Rynelf, glaring up at the rest of the soldiers. Peter buried his head into the soldier's chest and Rynelf held him close, soothingly stroking his hair.

"What _animals_," Glozelle growled, looking over the faces of the soldiers assembled, "would attack an unarmed, defenseless youth? I am ashamed, so deeply ashamed, to have trained all of you. Have I taught you no honor?!"

The soldiers, with the lust and violence gone from their eyes, now stood red-faced and guilty, none of them daring to look their general in the face.

Peter, who was watching the doorway intently, saw that it was unguarded. He leaped out of Rynelf's arms and bolted before anyone could stop him. Driven by panic and humiliation, the boy dove head-first into the raging storm, not caring that it was freezing and he was barely clothed.

He ran as hard as he could, away from the nightmare, his lungs screaming in exertion. He heard someone behind him calling him to come back, but he ignored it, stumbling over the slippery stone pavement, falling over on his hands and knees, but not stopping, refusing to stop.

He scrabbled to get up, tearing his hands and knees bloody on the cobblestones. Someone grabbed him, tried to keep him still, and he cried out, struggling and twisting.

"Stop! Stop, it's me!" Rynelf shouted over the noise of the storm, not relinquishing his hold on Peter. He waited until the boy calmed down, the horrible rasping cries quieted.

"Caspian!" gasped Peter, and Rynelf understood.

"I will take you to him," he said, helping Peter to his feet.

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Caspian was reading by candlelight, in his dressing gown, when he heard a pounding on his door. He opened it to find his guard, Rynelf, who was dripping wet and holding another figure upright, also dripping wet.

"For goodness' sake, Rynelf, what were you doing out in that storm?" Caspian asked. Then, he recognized the sodden blond hair.

"_Peter?_" he cried.

Without a word, Rynelf gently led the shaking boy inside and Caspian quickly closed the door. He helped Rynelf set Peter down on a large cushioned chair, taking off the wet cloak.

The prince gasped again, in consternation when the light fell on Peter's many bruises and scratches. "Oh, Peter, what happened?" he asked, lifting the pale face to reveal wide, frightened eyes and bruised lips that were almost blue. But the boy wouldn't, or couldn't speak, and did not seem able to stop trembling.

Thinking quickly, Caspian ran to his bedroom, removing one of the quilts from his bed, and running back. He threw it around Peter's shaking shoulders, then knelt in front of him to gently smooth back the wet hair, murmuring comfortingly to him.

When the Narnian's tremors calmed down somewhat, and he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, Caspian went to the door, ignoring Rynelf for a moment. Opening the door, Caspian called hastily for a page.

"Go fetch a hot drink," he demanded, politeness forgotten for the moment. "And tell the chambermaid to come up and draw a bath. And bring some more quilts."

The page left hurriedly. Caspian turned back to Peter, who was not shaking as hard, but still silent and staring, seeming to be in shock.

"Rynelf, what happened?" he asked the guard. He did not see any sever injuries on Peter's body, but he could tell something awful had transpired to send the boy into such a state.

Quietly, slowly, the guard relayed the events to Caspian, finishing his story just as the page and the chambermaid entered.

"Thank you, Rynelf," said Caspian somberly, clasping the man's arm gratefully. "You are an honorable man, and you have my gratitude for always."

There was another loud knock on the door, and without waiting for Caspian to open it, Glozelle flung it open and strode in.

"General!" said Caspian in surprise, but Glozelle brushed past the prince to stare at the pale figure in the arm chair, a frown gathering on his brow.

"What is _he_ doing here?" the general demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Peter.

"I…I brought him here, sir," said Rynelf nervously.

"And what would possess you to do such a foolish thing?" said the general, his voice rising.

"Stop!" warned Caspian, with a worried glance at Peter.

The general turned on the prince with a menacing expression, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a shake. "How many times have I told you not to meddle in your uncle's business, my prince? For your own sake!"

"Please stop shouting, general!" said Caspian. "If you must lecture me, then you can do it tomorrow. For now, I must see to Peter."

"No, you will not be seeing to that boy," said Glozelle, his voice low and dangerous. "I might have saved him tonight, but there is nothing I can do to help once your uncle finds out that _you_ gave him sanctuary! He is not in your custody, but the king's."

Caspian stared at Glozelle, frightened by his sword-fighting teacher's stern demeanor, but unwilling to relinquish Peter. He gathered up his courage and firmly removed the general's hands from his shoulders.

"With all due respect, sir," he said, his voice steady and strong, "these are _my_ chambers. And if I see fit to offer someone sanctuary in _my chambers_, then neither you nor the king himself can have any say in it."

There was a pregnant pause while the general stared at the prince and Caspian refused to back down.

"Then so be it, your majesty," said Glozelle grudgingly, with a curt nod. The general left the room, Rynelf and the servants trotting behind him and the door closed with a click.

Caspian sighed, letting out the nervous breath he had been holding. A soft noise behind him made him turn around. Peter had stood up, his face still pale and his body still trembling.

"Peter…" Caspian said softly. He walked over to the other boy and took cold hands into his own. "You are safe now. No one will harm you here…"

He was interrupted by Peter uttering a cold and sharp laugh, a sound that was strange and frightening.

"Oh, but they _will_ harm me," said Peter, his voice raspy, with a half-crazed look in his eyes. "They _will_! _He_ will! They _have_ harmed me, and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop them, not _one damned thing_, Caspian!"

"Peter, you are safe here!" Caspian tried to reassure him, trying to put his arms around him.

"Oh, but I won't be for long, will I? Not here, not anywhere within these castle walls!"

To Caspian's utter shock, Peter launched himself into his arms, pressing bruised lips to his mouth, almost _attacking_ Caspian with the kiss. The prince staggered under Peter's weight, forced to catch the other boy about the waist.

"Peter, what are you doing?" Caspian gasped, prying the boy off. "Listen to me, there is no one else here! No one will hurt you!"

"Yes he _will_!" cried Peter, his voice loud and shrill. "Sooner or later, whether I want it or not, whether _you_ want it or not, he _will_ have his way, don't you see?! And I don't want it to be him, I want it to be _you_."

The blond boy kissed him again, hard and brutal, while dropping the quilt to the floor so that he stood bare-chested in front of Caspian, who gaped.

"Come, Caspian, take me," he growled, grabbing fistfuls of Caspian's robe, pulling and yanking. "Kiss me, touch me. I can't control what they do to me, but I can control _this_."

"Peter, stop! This isn't what you want right now!" Caspian snapped, trying to free himself from Peter, who looked quite monstrous in the firelight.

"Yes it is," said Peter, voice low and guttural, his teeth bared and flashing. "I know you want me," he pressed his hips forward, grinding against Caspian in a horrible mockery of affection, "and I want you. I want it to be _you_ and not him!"

He laughed eerily again, sneering at Caspian, who held him back at arm's length. "Why so shy, my prince? It isn't _your_ first time, after all, is it?"

"_Stop it_!" Caspian yelled, pulling away forcefully and slapping Peter across the face.

At once, the hysterical gleam vanished from Peter's eyes, like a light being snuffed out. Peter gasped, looking horrified at what he'd tried to do, his hands dropping limply to his sides before coming back up to clasp his own face.

"I'm sorry," Peter sobbed, his face crumpling in distress. "I'm so sorry." He wobbled and would have collapsed had Caspian not rushed forward to take him into strong arms.

"Shh," Caspian soothed, tears falling down his own face as well. "It's alright, it's alright." The prince lowered them both to the floor, gently rocking Peter as the boy clung to him and wept, the emotional well overflowing.

"You're half-frozen," said Caspian, feeling Peter's hands and cheeks. He gently lifted Peter up and walked him over to the chair, setting him down on it, replacing the quilt around his shoulders. He gave Peter the steaming cup that the page had brought, wrapping both of Peter's pale hands around it.

Shakily, Peter took a sip, and nearly gagged when he realized it was spiced wine.

"Drink it down," said Caspian. "It will make you feel better, I promise."

"I can't," said Peter, looking hopelessly at him.

"Alright then, I'll get you something else," said Caspian understandingly. "Now come, your bathwater's getting cold."

He led Peter to the indoors bathroom, where a steaming tub was waiting. He left the boy alone to give him some privacy, slipping out of his rooms and calling the page for a cup of tea, apologizing for his brusque behavior earlier.

Caspian walked through the dark halls quietly, to Dr. Cornelius' room. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Slowly, he opened it and saw that his tutor was fast asleep, snoring lightly. Not wanting to disturb him, Caspian tiptoed around the room, to the shelf where he knew Cornelius kept his medical supplies.

Hoping his tutor wouldn't mind, Caspian pilfered a jar of medicinal salve as well as some bandages and small pair of surgical scissors. He slipped out as quietly as he came.

When he got back to his own room, Peter had already finished up and was sitting cross-legged on Caspian's bed, wearing one of Caspian's longer nightshirts, with the cup of tea in his hands. He looked up nervously, biting his lip, as Caspian came in.

The prince smiled comfortingly and sat down next to Peter. Gently, he helped Peter roll up each sleeve and bare the skin wherever he was injured, so he could rub the salve into the ugly bruises there. He used the scissors to snip the bandages into small strips and wound them around the deeper cuts.

"I'm so tired," Peter murmured, when Caspian was done, "but I'm afraid to dream."

"You must rest," said Caspian, and he pulled open the covers for Peter.

Peter lay down with a sigh, his eyes already slipping closed as Caspian covered him warmly.

"You are safe," Caspian whispered softly, his heart aching at how drawn and pale Peter was. He gently stroked the boy's face, smiling when Peter leaned into the touch.

"I would protect you from anyone, I swear," Caspian declared. "You have nothing to fear here, Peter."

"Would you protect from your king?" Peter said, his eyes closed. "Could you?"

"Yes," Caspian replied, without hesitating. "For as long as the water flows, for as long as the sun rises each day, for as long as the mountains stand tall and still, I will protect you and love you."

Peter opened his eyes and looked at him strangely. "Say that again?"

"It's something my mother used to sing to me," said Caspian, chuckling. "Do you like it?"

"Y-yes. It sounds so familiar."

Caspian hummed, taking Peter's hand into his, glad to feel that the skin was warm at last. "For as long as the stars brightly glow, for as long as the breezes whisper sweetly, for as long as the sea remains great and strong…"

He continued until he thought Peter was asleep, then got up to leave. Peter stopped him, gently taking Caspian's wrist. "Stay. Please?"

"If you wish," Caspian said, smiling gently. Shrugging off the robe from his shoulders, Caspian climbed in next to Peter. He embraced him as a brother would, offering comfort and warmth, nothing else.

"Sleep, my love," Caspian whispered, and Peter slumbered, safe in his arms.

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Notes: sorry i was mean to peter! What do you think? Too much? Not enough? Please feedback and lemme know!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Chapter 7

The rays of the sun on his cheek woke the prince. There was a pleasant weight against his chest. He could smell the warm sweetness of Peter's hair, the blond head tucked snugly under his chin.

Slowly, Caspian opened his eyes, smiling when he saw Peter still asleep next to him. The comforter was pulled all the way up to the boy's cheekbones, the rest of Peter buried under the thick quilts and snuggled against Caspian.

Caspian did not move, but watched Peter, so peaceful-looking and childlike in sleep, the pale golden lashes resting on a smooth cheek. He could feel the other's boy's chest, rising and falling with each breath, against his own, the gentle heartbeat thumping away.

It was awhile before Peter's eyelids fluttered and opened. Hazy blue eyes blinked and looked around before resting on Caspian's face. The prince smiled and leaned over to kiss Peter's forehead, and Peter let out a small, sleepy murmur of pleasure.

"Good morning," Caspian whispered, and Peter mumbled something similar while burying his head back into Caspian's chest. Caspian chuckled and gently stroked the back of Peter's neck. He looked out the window and saw a bright, beautiful day. Birds were singing and the sky was blue.

"Did you sleep well?" Caspian asked, and Peter hummed his assent.

After a minute of quiet snuggling, he heard Peter say in a teasing tone, slightly muffled, "This is quite inappropriate, don't you think?"

"Hmm?" Caspian murmured, and Peter sat up to look down at him, smirking a bit.

"This. Inappropriate. The two of us in bed together. Don't you think so? One would think that we were doing something awfully wicked." He laughed lightly, his eyes shining, and Caspian smiled too.

"But we were just sleeping. We aren't doing anything wicked, are we?" he said softly, putting a gentle hand over Peter's cheek, carefully minding the bruises which still lingered there.

Peter turned his head slightly, to nuzzle his lips against Caspian's palm, his eyes slipping closed. "No, we aren't," he said, his smile fading away slightly. "But… do you want to?"

Peter's fingers brushed over Caspian's neck, trailing downwards, stroking over the collarbone. Caspian looked up at him, saw that the blue eyes seemed troubled, uncertain. "I don't think _you_ do, Peter," he replied quietly, pushing Peter's wrist away lightly and sitting up as well. "And until you're ready, we shan't."

Peter lowered his head, sighing, and sucking in the corner of his bottom lip.

"Listen, Peter, about what happened last night…"

"Don't, please. I don't want to talk about it," said Peter in a small voice. With a small exhale, the blond pushed back the covers and crawled over Caspian to lower himself to the floor. Silently, he walked across the room and disappeared into the bathroom. With a sigh of his own, Caspian also got up, putting on his dressing gown.

When Peter reappeared, he had donned his trousers and shoes, and was tucking in the long shirt. "I should be going, " he said, a bit awkwardly. "It's already late."

"Going?" said Caspian, confused. "Going where?"

"Back to the warehouse, of course."

"What do you mean, back to the warehouse? Peter, you're staying here."

Now Peter was looking at him confused. "Well I can't just _stay_ here! They'll be expecting me to show up for work. I can't just leave…"

In three quick strides, Caspian walked over to Peter and took his arms firmly, staring at him intently. "No," he said, and his voice and countenance became quite stern. "I'm not letting you go back to that place. You'll stay here with me."

Peter stared at him, quite surprised by his lover's fervor. "Caspian… what are you talking about? Of course I've got to go back…"

"_Don't_ argue with me, Peter, please. What if they try to hurt you again? I may not be able to command those soldiers to leave you alone, but at least I can keep you out of harm's way."

"I can take care of myself, you know," said Peter, now looking at him in mild annoyance.

"I _know _you can take care of yourself. But what about last night? If Rynelf hadn't gotten the general in time…"

Peter winced at his words and looked down, and Caspian felt his heart clench. "Stay here with me, my love," he said, stroking Peter's arm soothingly. "I could not protect you last night, but I won't let that happen again."

"Caspian, you don't understand. Do you remember when I couldn't work for a day because I was sick and you brought me to the healing ward? The guards nearly whipped one of the other slaves to death because the work was unfinished at the end of the day. And the other day, one of the children ran away, neglecting his duties, and the guards took it out on two of the others. What if they hurt someone because I'm missing? I can't let that happen."

"I don't care about that!" Caspian snapped impatiently, immediately regretting his words when Peter pulled out of his grasp with a reproachful look.

"Well I do," said Peter stubbornly. "They're people, just like you and me. But you wouldn't understand that, would you? Never mind, I should be going," and he turned to leave.

"Peter, wait, please," said Caspian, taking hold of his arm. The prince pulled him into an almost desperate embrace. "I didn't mean that, you know I didn't. But I'm worried about _you_."

When Peter made no answer, Caspian sighed and pulled back so he could look into his eyes. "Look, would you at least come back here tonight then? Right after they dismiss you? I'll send Rynelf to get you."

"Alright," said Peter, and Caspian pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Peter looked up into his lover's dark eyes managed a small smile. "Thank you, Caspian. For caring for me." And he leaned his head up for another brief kiss before he turned away and left through the door.

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As soon as Peter arrived back at the warehouse, they put him back to work as if nothing had happened the previous night. He fell back into the routine of loading bricks, somewhat gratefully, since it kept his mind off of the soldiers that stood around watching him. Still, he could not help shuddering every now and then, wondering if the guard at his side was there in the barracks with him last night.

They were allowed a rest at midday, and scanty rations were given out. Peter sought out Jacob and went to sit next to the old man, hoping for comfort as well as some small measure of protection from the ever-watchful guards.

"I heard what happened," the old man whispered, as Peter sat down close to him, snuggling into the protective arms. "Are you alright, my boy?"

Silently, Peter nodded and began to sip at his bowl of grayish porridge. Jacob hummed comfortingly and kissed his hair in sympathy. They did not speak much, and Peter was glad.

"Where were you last night?" asked the old man, and Peter could hear a frown in his voice. The boy didn't answer.

"With the prince?" Jacob guessed, and sighed when Peter didn't respond. "It is unwise my son, so very unwise to become too close with Prince Caspian. Will you not heed my words?"

Peter squared his jaw and pulled away slightly, not looking at Jacob. He set his bowl down with an angry little thump.

"Ah, you are upset. Do you love him very much, Peter?"

"I do," the boy declared. He stared down at his hands. "Is it so selfish of me to want to be happy, sir?" he whispered forlornly.

"No, no. You are anything but selfish, dear. To love the prince is not selfish, but very dangerous, as I have learned. Haven't you wondered, Peter, how I came to be in this place?"

Peter stared up at him, looking into Jacob's old, weary features. The dark eyes of a Telmarine, the wrinkled skin of age and stress. "You told me your name was once Lord Erimon," he said hesitantly, "and that you were one of king's courtiers. But what happened?"

Jacob smiled sadly and put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "The same thing that happened to Lord Belisar and Lord Uvilas, and the two Lords of Beaversdam. Fell from Miraz's grace, all of us, for being loyal to Caspian."

"Prince Caspian?" said Peter, his brow wrinkling in bewilderment. He immediately lowered his voice when Jacob hushed him, looking pointedly at the guards. "But what does Prince Caspian have anything to do with Miraz?"

"No, not the prince," said Jacob. "At least, not just the prince himself. King Caspian, the ninth."

"Caspian's father?" Peter gasped.

Jacob nodded. "There were many of us," the old man whispered with his lips against Peter's ear, "that believed the former king did not die of natural causes, as Miraz claimed when he took his brother's throne."

"But…surely you can't be suggesting that Miraz murdered his own brother?"

"Do you doubt that Miraz is capable of such a thing?" asked Jacob, and Peter could not disagree.

"We campaigned for Prince Caspian, who was only a child at the time. The throne was rightfully his, and Miraz was the usurper. Still, Miraz and his supporters helped him seize the Telmarine throne, and once he was crowned, he slowly started to rid the court of anyone he suspected of being loyal to King Caspian, or supported his son's sovereignty. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. The rest were killed, "by accident" or executed under false charges."

Peter chuckled mirthlessly. "But what does he have to fear from me? I am no lord or prince. What threat am I to him, if I'm to be with Caspian?"

"Miraz is a paranoid and power-hungry man, Peter. Anyone can be seen as a threat in his eyes. So you see, by associating yourself with the prince, you are associating yourself with Miraz's political enemy. Do you see, my son, why it is unwise to be involved in such things?"

Peter looked troubled. He wrung his hands. "Does Caspian know that his uncle killed his father? I mean, do you have any proof?"

"Proof? No, Miraz is much too clever to leave behind any proof. And I doubt that the prince knows, which should be a blessing, I suppose. It would put him in more danger if he were to know."

"And being with him would put me in danger, is that what you're saying?" said Peter, with a wry smile. "Well I don't care. Let the king do to me what he will. If being with Caspian will make the king my enemy, I'd rather have him as my enemy than as an admirer." The boy stood up and left, as the guards called the slaves back to work, leaving behind a concerned Jacob staring after him.

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"General Glozelle," said Miraz, his tone smoothly royal. "I hear that there has been some unpleasantness in the barracks last night. Would you care to elaborate? Come, walk with me."

"The soldiers' conduct was highly improper, your majesty," replied the General as he followed the king down the corridor. "They assaulted one of the Narnian slaves."

"I see," said the king. "And who was it that told you of this unfortunate behavior? One of the soldiers themselves?"

There was a pause before the general spoke again. "No one, sire. I heard the racket myself, and left my quarters to investigate."

"I also heard from the honor guard that the boy was missing from the bunkhouse last night. Do you know where he was, my general? He has reappeared today, seemingly with no ill-use, so I can only assume someone sheltered him last night." The king's voice turned dangerous. "Who, general, sheltered _my_ prisoner?"

"I-it was me, sire. I took pity on the boy and let him rest in my quarters. There was no one else who would take him in."

There was a chilling chuckle from the king, and it was a while before he spoke again. "General Glozelle, tell me, where do your loyalties lie?"

The general looked warily at the king, and gulped nervously before he spoke. "Sire, my duty to you is unquestionable-"

The king's arm lashed out and struck the general across the face, the heavy rings on his fingers leaving long gouges in his cheek. There was no cry of pain, merely a quiet grunt of surprise.

"The Narnian slave is in _my _keeping!" Miraz hissed, his countenance turning from coldly pleasant to furious in an instant. "You, general, knew better than to interfere! Whatever I see fit to do, _you_ have no right question or intervene. You are lucky that you are my most trusted general. I have executed people for less!"

"Yes, your majesty," said Glozelle, bowing his head low, not daring to wipe at the blood that was gathering on his lip. "I shall never go against your wishes again, I swear it."

"See that you don't," snapped Miraz, who kept walking.

Caspian, who was huddled into a hidden alcove and had heard their entire exchange, shuddered when he heard their footsteps come closer. The prince slid out of his hiding place quickly and pretended to look as if casually walking, just as the two men turned the corner and stepped in front of him.

"Uncle! General," he said, hoping his voice didn't squeak, as he made a short bow to both of them.

"Ahh, Caspian!" said Miraz, a wide smile gracing his face. Caspian felt his stomach curdle, at how his uncle had sounded positively murderous just a moment ago. "And how is my nephew today? Your lessons going well, I hope?" Miraz put a parental hand on Caspian's shoulder and the prince had to fight not to cringe.

"Yes, sir. I'm on my way to find Dr. Cornelius right now, actually," he said, hoping to be out of Miraz's presence, trying his hardest not to stare at the silent general's injured face.

"Good, good," said the king. "Well, be on your way then, little prince." And he tightened his fingers on Caspian's shoulder just the slightest bit, and an odd smile came over his face. Caspian nodded, trying not to shiver at the inexplicably cold feeling that came over him. Bowing politely, the prince moved away from Miraz's touch and walked the other direction as fast as he could

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The old woman hobbled through the streets, a gnarled, sun-browed hand tightly clutching an equally gnarled walking stick. "Alms for the poor…" Her wheedling voice was thin and high, tremulous and cracking, drawn from a throat that was dry and emaciated.

"Alms….alms…." Unwashed gray hair hung in clumps and tangles, down the crone's back and over her face so that she looked like a creature half-wild. No one stopped for her, not on this dark, desolate street.

People passed, faces dead-looking, eyes downcast. Walking and walking yet heading nowhere. No one to stop for one poor, lonely beggar woman.

"Alms for the poor!" she cried, the needle of her voice piercing the air. She wandered farther off, off the main road, her walking stick before her, a wooden bowl held out in the other hand.

There was a young Telmarine soldier, who was lounging with his back against a sign post. He had a lazy look on his face and his eyes were bored and arrogant. He was dressed in the imperial uniform, looking terribly out of place in the bleak village.

"Alms for the poor…" she croaked, limping close to where he was standing. The man recoiled with a look of utter disgust.

"Narnian hag!" he snapped harshly. "The streets are filthy enough as they are without you traipsing through them. Be gone with you!"

She made a low whining noise and turned her head towards the soldier, looking up at him through her hair. "Good sir, kind sir," she said, dipping her head in a jerky sort of bow. "This is a free road, this is. There's no harm in a poor crone walking here. Perhaps, would you spare some money, kindly?"

She tottered towards him, arm held out. With a revolted look, the Telmarine angrily shoved her and she fell to the ground with a screech.

The woman moaned pitifully, a cut on her forehead where it had struck a rock. As the Telmarine soldier tried to walk past her, she reached out and put a hand on his leg, as if to plead for help.

He yanked out of her grip with an angry cry of loathing and drew back his leg to kick at her. His blow never fell.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a cold steel blade slid across his neck to tickle against his vulnerable throat. The Telmarine froze, his eyes growing wide.

"Strike her, and you are dead," said the person holding the blade. A slim, white hand reached under his chin to unfasten the buckles of his helm, then drew it off, letting it fall to the ground. Slowly, the soldier turned his head and caught a sight of a dark-cloaked figure with blue eyes and pale skin.

"Do you know who I am?" said the person, drawing off the hood with the free hand, revealing a young girl's face.

"No," said the man, his lips twisting into a sneer, "and it is you who should know that I am one of king's imperial soldiers. If you so much as harm one hair on my head-"

She twisted the blade slightly, nicking him, and the man gasped as a trickle of blood ran down his neck. Shapely pink lips curved upwards into a cold smile.

"Well," said Susan. "You shall know me better soon." In one swift movement, she swung the blade around and struck the man on his un-helmed head with the hilt of her knife. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Two more figures crept from the shadows to drag the limp Telmarine off while Susan went to help the old woman.

…………………………………………………………

"How many of you are occupying the village?" Susan demanded, staring down at the captured Telmarine, who was sitting on a rock, unarmed and guarded by two of her soldiers. They were in the forest, where the rest of the Narnian army was camped out.

When he refused to answer, she nodded to a nearby minotaur, who stepped forward menacingly with his axe raised.

"Fifty!" the soldier stammered out immediately, cowering back with fear. "There are about fifty Telmarines soldiers stationed at the village!"

"And why," continued Susan, "does the king have so much interest in this place? There aren't any farms or storehouses to raid."

Watching the minotaur warily, the man gulped and answered, "The king wants this place because it is close to a rock quarry. He plans to use the villagers as workers, to mine the rocks and carry it back to the capital. That is all I know!"

Angrily, Susan strode forth and grabbed him by the collar, shaking him. "This is the third Narnian village, so far, that has been invaded and enslaved! Why does the king need so many laborers? What is he building in his castle? Speak!"

"I-I'm telling you, I don't know!" gasped the man, clearly frightened by her fierceness. "I'm just a soldier, stationed here to watch over the villagers! I know nothing of the king's plans!"

Susan peered into the man's face, seeing that he was telling the truth. With a frustrated sigh, she let him go, and he slumped back onto the ground. She turned her back on the Telmarine, thinking furiously. _What _was the king up to? For a long time, the outer Narnian villages have been left relatively in peace, but the raids were becoming more and more frequent. For what great project does Miraz need so many slaves? And why was he invading all the rock quarries and mines? What is he building?

Suddenly, there was a yell behind her and Susan whipped around to see the Telmarine soldier take a knife from his boot and lunge straight at her, before any of the others could stop him.

She ducked as he swung at her, grabbed his arm spun it around the man, twisting it painfully behind his back, squeezing at the wrist joint until he dropped the knife. He shouted and struggled in her grip and tried to seize her by the hair. Quick as a flash, she drew her own knife from her belt and stabbed, once, twice, three times.

Panting, she dropped the man, and he fell to the ground, dead. There was a shriek to her left and Susan turned to see Lucy staring at her in horror. Susan dropped the red knife in her hand and shouted for the centaur that was supposed to be watching her sister, "Glenstorm! Get her out of here!" Her voice was harsh and unnatural, and she wiped her sweaty face, not realizing when her fingers left bloody streaks across her pale cheek. _She shouldn't have had to see that, not Lucy, not her baby sister…_

…………………………………………………………………_._

……………………………………………………………………_.._

Caspian had been slightly off-balance the entire day, since he overheard the conversation between his uncle and the general. He had been worried sick, worried for Peter and worried for Rynelf, who would surely be punished if his uncle ever found out that it was Caspian's personal guard who had saved Peter. Thanks to Glozelle, that problem seemed to be averted.

Caspian pushed open the door to his chambers, looking around for Peter. It was late, and Rynelf should already have brought Peter back. Where was he?

"Peter?" Caspian called out. There was no answer at first, and the prince began to panic slightly. Then, there was a quiet murmur coming from the bathing room, and Caspian could see that the door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, and there was light coming from it.

Caspian sighed with relief, and shut the door behind him. He unbuttoned and shrugged off his outer shirt and went around lighting some candles in his room. He summoned the page for some supper to be brought up.

"Are you alright in there?" he called, wondering why Peter hadn't come out yet, thinking the other boy had probably just been using the toilet or washing his face. There was another quiet murmur that he couldn't quite make out.

Curious, Caspian walked over to investigate. Pulling open the bathroom door, he froze and a not-so-innocent tremor of delight ran through his body.

"I hope you don't mind that I'm using your bath," said Peter, who was lounging back in the large marble bathtub, head tilted back in repose, eyes half-lidded. The steam from the water rose in puffs, curling about the slightly flushed cheeks, hiding the boy's naked body under a cloud of white.

"Uh… no, of course not," said Caspian, his throat terribly dry. He nearly melted when Peter gave another pleasurable little hum and closed his eyes, sinking lower into the water, leaning back his head to rest against the edge of the tub.

"You can join me," said Peter, "I don't mind."

"J-join you?" said Caspian, his voice a little high-pitched. _Was Peter actually suggesting…? _The water must be terribly hot, the prince decided, if it was making him sweat and he wasn't even near the tub. "I don't think… I mean… I thought we were trying to… probably not a good idea…" he stammered ineloquently.

Peter, however, was not at all trying to be seductive. At home, baths were always shared, since hot water in large quantities was hard to come by. Not knowing any better, Peter assumed that it was also the case everywhere else, and was just trying to be polite.

Caspian, on the other hand, had grown up in a castle where bathwater was readily available for the prince's comfort, and the thought of sharing a tub with someone, for practical reasons, at least, was completely unknown to him. Peter's suggestion struck him as positively _scandalous_ and rather kinky.

Taking Caspian's stuttering to be a negative, Peter rolled his shoulders and replied, "Alright then. Suit yourself." He sat up slightly and reached for the soap, giving Caspian a very nice view of water glistening on a bare chest and two pink nipples.

Caspian gasped and immediately turned around, stepping out of the bathroom. Trying to quell the feelings that were rising up in him, he started pacing around the small living area. Should he…? Or not… Honor and concern for Peter's well-being made him ultimately decide to _not_.

He noticed that supper had already been brought in and set up on the table. Caspian quickly went to light some more candles, just to give his shaking hands something to do. A soft moan and the sound of soap rubbing against slick skin caused Caspian to nearly knock over the candlesticks.

The prince was ever so grateful when Peter finally stepped out, with a robe on. "I feel so much better," Peter said, his cheeks pink from the heat. "You have such a lovely bathroom and the hot water was so nice."

Caspian found himself smiling at Peter's talking, despite the uncomfortable clenching in his stomach and groin. Soon, they were sitting down and Caspian was trying to teach Peter how to use the crab fork, and Peter was laughing, and then Caspian was laughing as well. He found himself staring fondly, unable to look away as Peter buttered the bread with the wrong knife, or licked his fingers instead of using the silk napkins. Caspian got him to try a little wine, and blushed furiously when Peter leaned over and kissed his cheek with wine-stained lips.

Unable to help himself, Caspian took Peter's hand under the tablecloth and held it tightly, smiling like he would never stop. Everything was warm and happy, and all their cares could wait.

Notes: Thank you all for reading! Please review and let me know what you think! Sorry this chapter doesn't really advance the plot much, but next chapter will!


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: SEX!!

Chapter 8

"What's wrong with you?!" Edmund shouted at her, giving Susan another shove as she tried to reach a sobbing Lucy. "You're frightening her. She's scared of you, can't you see that?!" The boy, fierce and red-faced was standing protectively in front of his younger sister as Susan was trying to comfort Lucy without much success.

Susan, worried about Lucy and becoming just as frantic as her sister, did indeed look very frightening. Her dress was stained rusty red and her hands and face was covered with blood. The knife she had used to kill the Telmarine soldier still hung from her belt, also dirty with blood. Her hair was wild, and her face pale with distress.

"Lucy!" she cried desperately. "Darling, it's alright. I didn't mean for you to see it, I swear. It's alright!" Susan tried to reach over Edmund, stretching her arms towards the near-hysterical girl, but Lucy looked at her with pure horror in her young eyes, and fled.

"What have you done?" said Edmund, shoving her back again, and Susan stumbled, nearly falling. "You've killed someone right in front of her! What were you thinking?"

"I…I never meant for her to see!" cried Susan pleadingly, wringing her hands, looking at Edmund as if begging for him to believe her.

"But she did see, didn't she? Oh, Susan, she's our little sister! How could you be so careless and so cruel? You've murdered someone right before her eyes!"

"It wasn't murder!" Susan yelled defensively. She flung sweaty hair from her face. "He had a knife, and I defended myself, Edmund!"

"_Defended_?" Edmund said disbelievingly. "You've got his blood all over you! How many times did you have stab him before he stopped attacking?"

Susan opened her mouth as if to shout back, but it came out as a defeated half gasp, half sob as she realized he was right. She bowed her head, unable to look him in the eye.

"Susan, I want you to send us back home," said Edmund, his dark eyes blazing mercilessly, and Susan felt her heart drop to her feet. His words struck her as if it were a physical blow.

Two years of war, she thought. Blood shed, spilt, hands washed in it. Two years of wanting to see them again, her round-faced cherub and her beautiful dark-haired boy. Every drop of blood, every cut, every quickened pulse, every battle-cry, who was it for if not for them? But now, Lucy ran from her and Edmund stared at her as if she were a monster.

"It's too late for that," she said, her voice flat and dead. "The only safe road back to the village is being watched by Telmarine troops."

"Then you'll drop me and Lucy off at the next safe village, wherever that is," said Edmund staunchly.

"If that's what you want, my love," Susan whispered, her heart breaking. She reached out to stroke Edmund's face, but pulled back quickly, remembering the red that still stained her hands.

Dejectedly, she turned to go, but Edmund caught her hand. "Susan, come with us. If we leave, leave with us, please? Don't go to war," he said beseechingly, his voice devoid of any spite or anger.

She looked into his moist eyes and saw hope and love. "You know why I can't" she said, hating herself when Edmund's eyes were filled again with resentment. He dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.

"You'll die, then," he said, his voice an angry hiss. "I dreamt that you died, and Peter was dead too." Without another word, he whirled around and ran off in the same direction as Lucy did. Susan stared after him, pale and unmoving.

When she finally left, it was to the tent where the Telmarine captive, Lord Arlian, was kept. "Is he talking yet?" she asked of the soldier who was guarding him.

"No, Lady," said the young faun, glancing at the Telmarine on the bed, whose neck was still bandaged. "He barely eats or drinks, and claims to be in pain most of the time."

Susan glared at Lord Arlian, his arrogant face angering her. "Well if he can't find a use for his tongue soon, then I'll cut it out!" she snapped, and left in a huff.

And at the end of the day, when all was said and done, Susan was still Susan, cruel yet lovely, strong yet brittle, brave yet so very, very frightened. Lucy, the innocent little girl, remained a little girl, but one who has seen too much.

And Edmund, unfailingly, had the same dream he had been having for weeks.

Peter was dressed in black, and Susan, in virginal white. His brother was kneeling, hands held before him, a golden crown resting on his palms. It was Peter, but it was a different Peter, golden hair and blue eyes. _So fair, so fair_.

There was a man, dark and terrible, a great Telmarine king. With a sword, he struck Peter where he knelt and a spray of blood gushed forth, splashing Susan, who knelt next to him. The red of Peter's blood was horrible against her white dress and her pallid face, yet the queen (but why was she a queen? Edmund wondered) never even moved, never even flinched. And Peter fell, the crown slipping from his hands, falling with him, shattering on the ground as he fell. He lay on the grass, staining it with his blood, his face so calm, his mouth open as if to sigh, his eyes half-lidded in death. _Such a beautiful death_…

Then Susan died, by the same sword that slew the golden boy, and she was so peaceful, so still, her eyes so blue, staring up at the sky.

And Edmund woke screaming, his hand shoved into his mouth to muffle the sound, just like every other night. It was even worse than that dream about ice…

……………………………………………………..

……………………………………………………….

Dr. Cornelius was late for the lesson again that day. Caspian waited for a full half hour before his old tutor came into the study.

"Where were you, Doctor?" Caspian wondered, rather concerned at how his tutor looked. Cornelius had a grave look upon his face and his usually neat spectacles were all askew atop his nose.

But the good Doctor refused to talk, and lectured instead, about massive sums and Telmarine history. Caspian, curious and worried, could not concentrate on his lesson. Neither could Cornelius, as the bearded man kept looking out the window in a most unusual fashion.

"Please, Doctor," said Caspian, after he caught Cornelius glancing out the window for the fifth time that hour. "What is troubling you?"

Cornelius was silent, but he studied Caspian for a long time, scrutinized him through his glasses.

"My prince," he said finally. "I have been your teacher and friend ever since you were a boy. I've told you many things, stories about Old Narnia, that your uncle would behead me for without a second thought, because I felt that you have a good heart, an understanding and kind heart."

He sighed before continuing. "Do you trust your old friend, Prince Caspian?"

"Why, of course," said Caspian, quite bewildered. "Why ask such a thing?"

"My prince," said the Doctor slowly, and Caspian thought he looked so very cautious and tense. "Have you ever wondered what goes on in the deep parts of the castle? The places where the king has forbidden you to go?"

"Yes," whispered Caspian, his heart pounding in anticipation.

"So have I. But today, I wonder no longer, for I have discovered what Miraz is hiding. Do you wish to see?"

"Yes, oh yes."

"Come with me, my prince."

Cornelius led him out of the study and down a secret staircase. Down and down they went, until they came to an underground cavern, filled with tunnels and passageways. Cornelius, with torch in hand, led Caspian through an utterly confusing maze of tunnels until they came to another staircase.

Up they went, higher and higher, until they came to a secret room that had a door, leading to the outside. Caspian realized that they had emerged in the construction area, where the slaves usually worked. He could hear the shouts of the overseers, the clanging of metal and stone.

Opening a window, Cornelius beckoned to Caspian. The prince looked out where Cornelius was pointing and saw a huge open courtyard, where there sat at least ten large structures, made of brick and metal. There were slaves adding bricks to them, sawing at wood and hammering at nails, continuously building.

"What are they?" whispered the prince, staring at the humongous things.

"_Machines of war_," said the Doctor. "Great monsters that spout fire and smoke."

"War!" gasped Caspian. "With whom?"

"Who else? The Narnian Resistance has forever been a thorn in the king's side. He seeks to stamp them out. He enslaves the Narnians to build for him, so that he can use the fruits of their labor to kill their people."

Caspian tried to process this knowledge, but there were voices suddenly, loud and near.

"Hurry!" whispered Cornelius, and grabbed his arm, pulling him outside through the door. They moved quickly, trying not to be seen, walking close to the walls. Caspian's heart was pounding as he witnessed the slaves at work, hauling bricks, fanning the ovens.

Suddenly, a flash of gold caught his eye. He stopped walking, turning around to stare. A slave, fair-haired and blue-eyed, stumbled and dropped a brick. Immediately, a guard came and struck the slave down.

"That's Peter!" Caspian cried, rushing forward, ignoring Cornelius who shouted out a warning.

……………………………………………

………………………………………………….

Peter stumbled, and the brick slipped out of his tired grasp. It hit the ground with a loud thump, and cracked into two pieces. He knew what going to happen, even before his old enemy, the head guard, came rushing up to him and knocked him down with a heavy blow.

"Clumsy oaf!" the man snarled as Peter glared up at him from the ground. A quick signal from the guard, and two more soldiers came and grabbed the boy, hoisting him to his feet.

"He broke one of the king's bricks," said the head guard, grinning sadistically. His hand went to the leather handle of the coiled whip that hung from his belt. "Four lashes would teach him to be more careful, I'd wager."

Peter gritted his teeth and glared daggers at the man as he was manhandled over to a nearby wall. He was made to stand facing the wall with his hands braced against it. The guard chuckled coldly as he walked up behind Peter, putting his mouth near the boy's ear.

"You may have escaped me that night in the barracks, boy. But the soft-hearted general isn't here today, is he? And no one here would chasten me for punishing a miscreant like you."

The man laughed again, and mockingly caressed the side of Peter's face, brushing back strands of blond hair. "Try not to cry too loudly!" he scorned.

Peter was trying his hardest not to react, knowing that the guard was simply taking out his anger and sexual frustrations on him. If he reacted, it would be worse for him. The boy set his jaw and stared straight ahead at the grainy brick wall, steeling himself for what was to come. He could handle it…he had to.

Peter could feel the other slaves' watching him, the other guards all crowding around. A public flogging was something dreadful yet sickeningly entertaining at the same time. He could feel himself trembling, not wanting the pain, _no_, but oh, he had to endure it…

The guard stepped back a distance, unfurling the whip from his belt. Grinning in an almost maniacal way, he grasped the handle tightly and raised it high above his head for the first strike. Peter drew in a sharp breath and could feel his muscles tensing up.

Just as the man was about to bring down the whip, Peter saw a dark-haired blur dart forward, out of the corner of his eye. In a flash, Caspian was there, grabbing the stunned guard's wrist in a vise-like grip, his dark eyes flashing like lightening.

"You," growled the prince in a purely bestial voice, "will _never_ lay another hand on him again!" Caspian's hold tightened until the guard cried out in pain.

"M-my prince!" whimpered the guard, trying to tug himself free, "I was only dealing out the necessary punishment…"

"Silence!" Caspian roared, and flung the guard away with such force that the man fell to the ground, clutching his dislocated wrist.

Peter who had turned around, gasped and paled at Caspian's fury. He had never seen his lover so angry. He found himself almost shrinking in back in fear when Caspian turned to face him, the black fire in the prince's eyes boring into Peter's.

Without a word to Peter, Caspian stormed forward and grabbed the blond boy by the arm, yanking Peter close. The tight fingers were bruising Peter's arm, but he was stunned into silence at the level of Caspian's ferocity.

"This slave," Caspian declared fiercely, turning his burning eyes on everyone who was assembled, "is _mine_. He is under _my_ protection, and I'll not have anyone saying otherwise!"

"Caspian, you're hurting me," Peter pleaded softly, trying to wriggle free.

"Be quiet!" Caspian snapped at him, giving him a shake. Peter stared at him in shock and affront.

"_No one_," hissed the prince, his eyes burning a path through the ranks of the slaves, the guards, the soldiers, "is to harm him or even _touch_ him. Anyone who will question _my_ right over him will answer to me. Is that clear?!"

In the shocked silence that followed, the prince tightened his grip on Peter's arm and stormed off, dragging the other boy with him, not noticing that Peter was flushed with indignant outrage.

Caspian marched Peter out of the courtyard, past the staring throng of people, through various colonnades and into the castle, up flights of stairs until he reached his own chambers. Caspian nearly smashed open the doors of his room with one hand while pulling Peter through with the other. Both boys were panting harshly, faces flushed.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, Peter yanked his arm out of Caspian's grip. Heatedly staring at the prince with narrowed eyes, Peter shoved him away when Caspian tried to come close.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily, rubbing at his arm where Caspian's finger marks were probably appearing.

"Saving you, of course!" Caspian retorted, shoving back just as hard, just as angrily. "Didn't I tell you to stay here? You wouldn't listen to me!"

"So, you're my new master, is that right?" Peter said, his voice low and shaking with fury. "I'm your slave now, am I?"

In response, Caspian surged forward and grabbed Peter by the collar of his shirt, slammed the blond boy backwards against the closed door.

"My slave, my lover, my possession, I don't care what, as long as you are _mine_, do you hear me?!" Caspian hissed, his face so close to Peter's that their noses bumped.

Peter's face flushed ten shades redder, either from anger, or the exertion of struggling against his captor, or outright lust in response to Caspian's body pressed so close to his. Without any warning, Peter grabbed Caspian's hair in his hands, twisting the dark strands painfully, and slammed his mouth against the prince's.

Caspian stumbled back from the onslaught, a surprised cry escaping as Peter plundered his mouth with a hot tongue. The prince moaned helplessly into the kiss as heat coursed through his body while Peter thrust his hips against his.

Peter yanked his mouth away before the kiss got affectionate and growled at Caspian, his teeth bared, "Then make me yours, prince. Take me!"

Before Caspian, whose mind was still reeling from the kiss, could register what was happening, Peter had turned them around, pushing Caspian up against the wall. A hand fumbled at the ties to the prince's shirt while eager hips continued to thrust against the prince's groin. Peter was growling obscenities at him, attacking him with fingers and lips and teeth, the blue eyes almost black with uncontrollable lust and anger.

As hot waves of pleasure ran rampant through Caspian's body, the prince managed to regain his senses long enough to realize that he didn't want this; _Peter_ wouldn't want this either, if he wasn't running purely on adrenaline and anger.

"Stop, stop…_stop!_" Caspian panted, and grabbed both of Peter's wrists, pushed him away, and gave the Narnian a good hard shake. Peter stared back at him, blond hair disheveled and falling into his face, cheeks and mouth red.

"What's the matter?" said Peter, his voice an animal's snarl. "You're enough of a man to claim me as your slave but not man enough to sleep with me? Coward!" he spat, and pulled himself loose, staggering backwards as Caspian leg go of his wrists.

"You're not my slave…" Caspian said, harshly gasping for air, and tried to reach out to Peter again, but was rebuffed.

"Get off!" Peter snapped, pushing his arms away. The blond spun around and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Caspian let out a huge frustrated breath and slumped to the ground, holding his head in his hands.

……………………………..

……………………………

It had been almost an hour since their spat, and Peter had yet to come out of the bedroom. Caspian himself had long since calmed down, and despite wanting to simply knock down the bedroom doors with a battleaxe, he decided to let Peter come out on his own, whenever he was read.

Tired and sore, he sat soaking in a bath. Though no longer angry, he was still frustrated, sexually and emotionally. When Peter had practically assaulted him before, Caspian had to fight every instinct in his body not to simply give in and take Peter, hard and fast, right up against the wall. Only the thought of hurting Peter, of frightening the inexperienced and rather naive boy, had stopped Caspian from doing just that. Still, honor alone could not quell the prince's shameful desires, and Caspian found himself as frustrated and needy as ever.

He sighed, swirling a hand in the tub, watching the water ripple The heat was making him sleepy. Eventually, Caspian dozed off and his dreams were plagued with images of Peter, beautiful and pale.

There was a small, whispery sound, and the noise of water rippling. Caspian's eyes snapped open as he felt a disturbance in the bathwater. The steam blurred his vision for a second, and Caspian waved his hand in front of his face to knock the vapors away.

He gasped and sat up. Peter, completely undressed and with one leg already in the tub, was slipping in his other foot, hands braced against the sides to lower himself in.

"_Peter_? What are you…" Caspian's words dried up in his mouth as Peter fully seated himself in the water facing him. With a small hum of pleasure, Peter stretched out, his long limbs brushing against Caspian's own. The prince made a small groaning noise in his throat as Peter's leg touched his, and a certain part of Caspian's body betrayed him by stirring to life. The prince quickly drew his knees up to his chest to hide his reaction to Peter's naked body.

Caspian stared speechlessly at the other boy while Peter silently looked back at him. Peter was rather oblivious as to how he was affecting Caspian, because in his mind, a bath was just a bath, something that was shared without any bothersome thoughts about modesty. Caspian, however, was sweating profusely and his throat was working convulsively as he gawked at the other boy, not sure what Peter was playing at.

Nonchalantly, Peter moved through the water until he was right next to Caspian. Sighing softly, he snuggled up against the nervous prince and laid his blond head on Caspian's chest.

"I'm sorry," Peter said quietly, his voice echoing in the chamber, a hand coming up to rest right over Caspian's thumping heart. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. I was angry but… I know you're just trying to look after me, and I _do_ love you so, Caspian."

"I-I'm sorry t-too," said Caspian, squirming and trying to will his body to behave. He raised an arm out of the water and slid it around Peter's shoulders, holding the boy close to him.

Peter nodded, his hair gently tickling Caspian's chest. "I know," he whispered.

To Caspian's delight and dismay, Peter cuddled even closer, arms wrapping around Caspian's middle and legs wrapped around the prince's.

Caspian tried desperately to concentrate on a spot on the wall while trying to slow his breathing. Why wasn't Peter moving? Caspian looked down slightly and saw that Peter's eyes were closed, his cheek pillowed on Caspian. Oh dear, had he fallen asleep?

Peter's eyes opened and Caspian breathed a sigh of relief. The blue orbs lit up as they settled on something on the shelf next to the tub. "Oooh, is that a real sea-sponge?" said Peter, and he sat up and leaned over Caspian to grab at it.

Caspian uttered a choked cry when Peter's hip accidentally brushed against his erection. Peter froze, his arm still outstretched, his fingers nearly dropping the sponge. Caspian stared at him with mortified eyes as Peter immediately turned red as a tomato.

Deliberately not looking at Caspian, Peter sat back with the sponge clutched to his chest, scooting away to the other end of the tub, his eyes focused on his own toes in the water.

"Peter….um, I…" Caspian stuttered.

"Do my back?" Peter quickly interrupted, shoving the sponge in Caspian's face and turning around, arms wrapped about himself.

His cheeks burning embarrassedly, Caspian took it and slowly dipped the sponge, letting it soak up the water. Eyes fixated on the pale skin of Peter's back, still slightly marred by pinkish stripes, Caspian raised the dripping puff and pressed it gently against the boy. Peter sighed softly and visibly relaxed. Caspian pressed a bit harder and then ran the sponge down the length of his spine.

He repeated the process, dipping it, then pressing it to Peter's back, then running the sponge down. It felt so hot in the room, so hot and wet. Caspian dipped the sponge again, repeated the process. As if mesmerized, the prince stared at how the soft sponge contracted against pale skin, how the droplets squeezed out to drip down Peter's back, as if caressing.

A noise made Caspian look up, and he saw that Peter was flushed, but not with heat. The blond boy was trembling, and his back was arching slightly with every touch, every pressure that Caspian made. Hesitantly, slowly, Caspian leaned forward and kissed a moist shoulder blade. A small moan escaped from Peter, the sound sending a pleasant thrill through Caspian.

"Do you want me to do your front too?" murmured Caspian huskily.

Peter nodded wordlessly, and Caspian moved forward so that his chest was touching Peter's back, and he reached over Peter's shoulder to gently wash his torso.

As he wet the sponge again, Caspian pressed a kiss to the back of Peter's neck, then one to his cheek, timing them so that the other boy could move away if he wanted to. Instead, Peter leaned into the gentle kisses, his eyes closing in bliss.

Caspian smoothed the sponge over Peter's neck, squeezing it, and letting the water run down. He moved downwards, sopping at the chest, teasing over the sensitive pink nipples and making Peter whimper in delight. Caspian's hand moved lower, sliding over the taut belly and into the water, past the navel and down to the pelvis.

With a gasp and a little jump, Peter felt the back of Caspian's hand touch his half-erect member. He leaned back into Caspian's strong arms, tilted his head back slightly and stared into dark, smoldering eyes.

The look in Peter's eyes spoke of unfulfilled desire, love, and absolute trust. Dropping the sponge into the water with a wet plop, Caspian slid his arms around Peter's midsection and pulled him flush against his chest, letting the blond head lean back against the crook of his neck.

Lowering his face slightly, Caspian captured Peter's mouth in a slow, languid kiss, tasting the moisture on the pink lips. The kiss left Peter trembling in Caspian's arms, and Caspian lifted his lips slightly, as if testing for Peter's reaction. When the other boy only responded with a noise of pleasure, Caspian lowered his mouth once again, kissing Peter deeply and sensually, his tongue gently probing and tasting.

When they broke apart, they were both flushed pink, eye dazed and filled with desire. Moving out of his lover's arms, Peter straddled Caspian's lap, and looked down into the water. He could see Caspian's rosy red member, erect and curled upwards.

Tentatively, shyly, Peter reached down and wrapped his fingers around Caspian's hardness, eliciting a quiet moan from him. Encouraged by the positive response, Peter smiled and wrapped his entire hand around the shaft, letting it rest in his palm before stroking upwards.

Caspian similarly reached between Peter's legs and touched the boy's now-erect member. Gently, he began to stroke in time to Peter's soft caresses. The light, unsure touches on his aching erection was almost to much to bear and Caspian groaned, leaning forward for another searing kiss with Peter.

Feeling Peter's slender hips begin to thrust forward, Caspian sped up his strokes, making Peter moan into the kiss. "Ohh… Oh, Caspian," he murmured, throwing his head back, lip caught between teeth.

Caspian stroked Peter's erection from base to tip, running his thumb along the head, making Peter writhe. He kissed Peter's exposed throat, gently suckling at the pale skin, leaving strawberry-red marks.

Reaching around Peter, Caspian used his free hand to cup one of the ivory buttocks. Ever so gently, he brushed a finger between the pale cheeks. Peter's gasped slightly, his eyes going wide, and Caspian paused. But, when the other boy nodded for him to continue, Caspian gently applied pressure to the small pucker with the tip of his finger, not quite penetrating him.

Peter moaned, and hid his face in Caspian's neck, raising his hips slightly to give the prince better access. With one hand still on Peter's erection, Caspian applied a bit more force with his other hand, meeting resistance from the tight ring of muscle. Peter hissed slightly and Caspian soothingly rubbed around the small hole, massaging it, before pressing forward again. This time, the finger slid through.

"Oow!" Peter gasped, tensing at the sharp sting, but Caspian was there, gently soothing him with kisses to his cheek.

"Do you want me to stop?" asked the prince.

Peter braced his forehead against Caspian's shoulder, breathing deeply before answering, "N-no. Don't stop, please don't stop."

Caspian slid the finger deeper, the water of the bath helping to ease the way. He pressed forward until the entire digit was seated inside of Peter's body, and the prince moaned at the tight heat of his lover, clenched around his finger. Slowly, Caspian slid his finger out halfway, then in again, and Peter moaned deeply, this time in pleasure.

Then, the prince pressed the tip of his finger forward and rubbed against a bump within Peter that sent pleasurable jolts through him, and Peter gasped in helpless bliss, his hips rising and falling, thrusting his erection into Caspian's other hand.

Peter's hand, which had fallen away from Caspian's member, returned to stroke the prince again. They built up a rhythm, each thrust, stroke, and pull in time with each other. Peter felt like the world was shaking around him as he shivered and bucked, mouth wide open, gasping for air.

"Caspian, I'm close," he cried out, and Caspian captured his mouth in a kiss, stealing the moan from his lips. The finger inside of him pressed against his prostate again, and Peter let out a tremulous cry and felt the orgasm rip through his body. Seconds later, Caspian also came, undone by Peter's cry of passion and Peter's hand.

As Peter rode out the incredible wave of pleasure, Caspian held on to him, kept him steady as he gasped and writhed. Utterly spent, Peter slumped forward and Caspian caught him in strong arms. Soft whimpers and soothing noises echoed in the stillness of the bathing room as Caspian held Peter close, so close and tightly, as if afraid the shaking boy would shatter like glass.

…………………………………………………………………………..

NOTES: ugh, this really didn't turn out like i wanted it to, which is what happens when writer's block strikes and strikes hard. blech. sorry if this chapter's a bit... off


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: So this is where the really AU stuff starts coming in... might be a bit confusing

Chapter 9

Caspian was reclining in bed, his head turned towards the half-opened window. The early winter's cool breeze felt soothing on his heated cheeks. He was waiting with baited breath, heart thumping quietly in his chest.

The door opened softly, and Caspian turned around to see Peter enter the bedroom. The boy was wearing one of Caspian's nightshirts, and it was too big for him, hanging off his thin frame. Caspian smiled, sitting up and moving aside the comforter for him as Peter padded over on bare feet, looking slightly nervous.

With a sigh, Peter climbed in next to the prince, immediately cuddling close to Caspian. They held each other, sharing the other's warmth and strength. With one hand stroking Peter's back, Caspian slowly leaned over to snuff out the candles on the bed stand. Only the stars outside illuminated the paleness of Peter's cheek, the glimmer of his blue eyes as he looked apprehensively up at Caspian's dark form.

_The muffled cry outside his door signaled the death of the sentry. The Telmarine Lieutenant shot up quickly from his bed, grabbing his sword in one hand, the lantern in the other. He stood in front of the closed doorway, readying himself for whatever would come through, but the attack came instead, from the window behind him. _

_An arrow shattered the lantern in his hand, knocked the flame out so that the room was plunged into darkness. The Telmarine spun around, and saw a figure hopping down from the windowsill, silhouetted by starlight and moonlight. A curtain of black hair, a kirtle decorated by leather and chain mail._

"_Fair maiden," he gasped, his sword trembling even as he held it up. _

"_No, Lieutenant," said she, her next arrow aimed at his eye. "Not so fair." _

_She loosed the bolt._

"Are you sure this is what you want?" whispered the prince to Peter, who lay beneath him. He caressed the warm cheek, smelling soap and herbs on Peter's skin.

Warm, sweet lips pressed up against Caspian's, and Peter hummed his assent into his mouth.

"I love you," came the breathless whisper. "Hold me? Love me?" Hands moved to slide against a smooth thigh, moving higher until it reached the hem of the borrowed nightshirt. Cautious, caring fingers grasped the cloth and started to lift it up, encouraged by the hitching breaths of excitement.

"_For Narnia!" came the deep cry, and Susan felt her voice reverberate through her body, as if her soul cried out along with her throat. From behind her, in front of her, on all sides of her, the Lion's Army surged forth and attacked the village under Telmarine occupation. _

_For Narnia… for love… for her sweet Lamb that looked upon her with such loathing, but not for glory, no. What glory was there in this killing? _

_The screams and battle-cries were loud in her ears as Susan notched another arrow to her bow and rushed into the fray. For Peter…For Aslan…_

The Narnian boy realized, with a warm thrill of pleasure, that he was not afraid at all. No fear, no clenching terror in his stomach as Caspian bent him over, face down, on a mound of pillows. Peter pressed his cheek to the cool silken sheets, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

All nervousness, all dark memories of pain and mocking laughter were pushed away from Peter's mind as the prince, ever so gently, hiked up the loose shirt to his waist.

"Ohh-ohhh!" Peter gasped, as Caspian pressed soft yet sensual kisses all over him, the small of his back, his bared buttocks, the soft skin on the backs of his thighs. He could feel the curve of Caspian's smile against his rapidly heating flesh. Fingers, and a slick tongue probed at his entrance, and Peter moaned, gripping the sheets as Caspian made love to him with fingers and mouth.

No longer afraid of touches in the night…

_The night was utterly dark but for the dull gleam of fires. Such screams! Such violent, angry, terrified screams. _

_The glint of a sword to her left alerted her and Susan swung her body sideways, catching the angry face of a Telmarine soldier as his blade hit nothing but air. She loosed yet another deadly bolt, faster than he could recover. It went through his neck with a spray of red that dotted and marked her pale face. The thrill that went through her left her both exhilarated and ashamed._

_A touch in the night. A hand on her shoulder and she spun around, another arrow already notched. It was not an enemy, but Glenstorm. _

"_The Telmarines run for the forest!" gasped the centaur, his broad chest glittering with sweat and his flanks heaving. "Should we pursue them?"_

"_Yes!" said Susan, surprised at how her voice sounded like a bestial growl. "Do not stop until they are all dead."_

"Are you ready for me, my love?" whispered Caspian from above Peter, his dark hair falling onto the other boy's face.

"Yes!" said Peter, his voice breathless and desperate. His legs wrapped around Caspian's waist, hips lifted, presenting himself. He gasped and clutched at the prince when he felt the hot length enter him for the first time. His thighs trembled and his head fell back against the pillows at the incredible sensations.

Caspian was groaning and panting above him, as his hips thrust forwards, uttering his name adoringly, and Peter was lost, so lost in the unquenchable furnace of lust. Lust and desire, lust for Caspian, desire for Caspian. As heat built within him, Peter moaned, long and deep and guttural, almost a scream.

_Her arrows were spent. The short, light sword that she carried was so stained it was almost black in the dim light. The sounds of dying were all around her as she slashed furiously, sinking her blade into the soldier. He was felled by her hand, and she sank to her knees as he died._

_The smoke from the burning houses stung her eyes and throat. The battle was won, the proof of it, dark and red, stained her face, hands, and clothes. She threw her head back, chest heaving, sweat dripping into her hair, her neck. _

_Heat slowly pooled into her stomach. Battle-lust, blood-lust, lust for the kill. The cheers and screams rose in pitch and volume around her as the Narnians declared their victory. She screamed, long and deep and guttural, until her voice died away into a moan. _

"Are you alright?" Caspian spoke softly as he lay face to face with Peter, both of them panting in the afterglow. Peter was trembling, every part of his body tingling. The prince tenderly stroked the flushed cheek, brushing yellow hair behind an ear. Peter smiled, love and wonderment shining from his eyes.

"I feel wonderful," he whispered back, his voice full of adoration. His heart felt full, happy and content with no room left for sadness or regret.

Caspian leaned over and kissed him delicately on the lips. "I love you."

………………………………………………………….

Susan wiped the gore off of her sword with a rag before sheathing it. Her quiver was half filled with the arrows that she had painstakingly gone back to collect from the battle.

The Narnian army was already on the move, trudging back to camp, thrilled but exhausted from their victory. Her throat was raw, her limbs were sore. She was tired, and so very cold in the chill of the gray dawn. She did not have to look to know that her armor and her hands were red with blood.

"Where are my brother and my sister?" she demanded of the faun sentry when they finally arrived back at camp.

"They are safe and still resting, Lady," said the faun. "Shall I send for them?"

"No!" she said quickly. "I don't want them to see me like this."

She went and washed, unattended, in a nearby creek, not caring that the water was near-frozen. Only when all traces of blood and dirt were scrubbed from abraded skin, did she step out, shivering. Wrapped in a shift, she entered her siblings' tent and saw them sleeping next to each other.

Susan was so tired, and she lay down next to Lucy, wrapping an arm around them both, letting herself slip into a light repose. She slept, breathing in the scent of Lucy's hair. For awhile, she imagined that it was back at home and she and her sister were settling down for the night. And for awhile, she let herself feel like a child again before she had to wake up with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

…………………………………………………..

When they woke the next morning, they spent a full hour still in bed, simply kissing, stroking, and smiling. They tripped over their words when they spoke, blushed a lot, laughed often with merriment in their eyes. Shy, in love, and utterly endeared to each other.

They held hands over the breakfast table, not able to take their eyes off of the other's face, smiling foolishly and ducking their heads bashfully over eggs and potatoes. They leaned over the tabletop and shared syrupy kisses between sips of honeyed milk, tasting each other, laughing like children.

Caspian took him out to the gardens, and they stole kisses and embraces amongst the roses, splashed each other playfully in the crystal clear fountain, held hands when walking, never wanting to let go. When it got cold, Caspian wrapped Peter in strong arms, and pressed hungry lips to his neck until he flushed with heat, smiling and laughing.

They avoided the honor guard, the servants and pages, even Dr. Cornelius. It was their time to be together as lovers, stolen time, but theirs. The day passed in a blur of happiness for Peter, a blur of smiles and laughter and deep brown eyes that sparkled with affection. That night, they made love again under the stars.

The next few days were the same. They would wake in each others arms and spend the day dallying with each other. They would touch, hold hands, and roam through the wing of the castle as if it was their park. The chambermaid, who came in to change their sheets, would gossip to her friends about how terribly inappropriate it was for a prince to loiter with a slave, but admitted that the prince had never seemed so vibrant and joyful.

"You are so beautiful," Caspian would whisper while pressing Peter into a convenient alcove, peppering his blushing face with kisses. They were reckless, drunk with love, happiness, and the vitality of youth.

Deep down in Peter's heart, however, the boy knew that it was only a matter of time before it had to all end. Miraz was still Caspian's uncle, Peter was still a Narnian slave, and the war between their races still raged on outside the castle walls. How could their love, so wonderful, but oh so fragile, survive all that would strive to break it?

………………………………………………………

"Look, Peter," said Caspian, pushing a book under his nose. It was opened up to an illustration, a colorful drawing of the last High King of Narnia and his Queen. "It's your namesake."

The two boys were holed up in the library, flipping through books, scrolls, and all sorts of maps.

Peter had been ecstatic when he discovered the library, excited by all the books with such fine print and pictures. He had been practically bursting with joy when Caspian first introduced him to the wonderful room, something that Caspian found endearing and amusing.

"I thought you couldn't read?" Caspian had asked, confused.

"Well, of course I can read," Peter had said nonchalantly, clambering up the stepladder to read the titles of the books, brushing his hand over the leather spines.

At home, there had only been two books between four eager siblings. One was a book of fairy tales that his mother had read to them over and over until the pages were crinkled up at the corners and the ink had faded. The other was a geography book, one that his younger brother thought to be terribly dull, but Peter loved because it spoke of faraway places.

In Caspian's library, faced with a multitude of books, each with a wealth of knowledge, Peter felt as though he had fallen into a treasure trove.

This particular day, it was raining quite terribly outside so an outing was out of the question. Lamps flickered on the many tables, casting dull shadows, as Peter devoured the pages of some poetry book and Caspian browsed to amuse himself.

"It's High King Peter, sitting on his throne," said the prince, pointing to the drawing of a golden-haired man with a crown on his head.

"Oh, is it?" said Peter, rather non-interestedly, barely sparing the book a glance. The boy had one of Caspian's old quilts wrapped around his shoulders as he nestled into the sofa. He claimed it was because he felt chilly and damp, but Peter liked the quilt because it belonged to _him_ and smelt of him.

"I though you'd be a bit more interested," Caspian huffed good-naturedly. "You were named for him, after all."

Peter chuckled a bit, and Caspian did not notice the slight tensing of the skin around the blue eyes. "I wasn't named for him, silly," Peter said lightly, "I was named for my father."

"Well, then was your father named for him?" Caspian wondered, looking at the words on the book.

"I suppose," said Peter a bit shortly.

"Would you like to hear the story?" said Caspian, sitting back in the velvet armchair and heaving the book onto his lap. "High King Peter, the last king of Narnia was the tenth of that name. He was the tenth descendant of the first High King, Peter the Magnificent who helped to defeat the White Witch. Peter the Tenth, like his ancestors before him, established a prosperous and peaceful rule in Narnia, gracing his subjects with wisdom and kindness.

"Oh, this is curious. He took for his wife, the Queen Susan, a woman who many likened to the legendary Queen Susan the Gentle, and was said to be a descendant of the Gentle Queen's children. She would often ride to battle with her king, and ruled by his side as a warrior as well as a nurturer.

It was during King Peter's rule that the Telmarine King, Caspian the Conqueror, invaded, seeking to conquer the land and take its rich bounty for himself. Peter, ever valiant…"

Peter snapped his book shut, his lips pressed tightly together as Caspian droned on.

"…led a series of wars against the Telmarines. But, the foreign invaders were too many, and they had weapons far deadlier than the Narnians could defend against. At the end of a bloody five-year war, after the Telmarines laid siege to Cair Paravel, King Peter and Queen Susan declared their surrender in order to spare their people more bloodshed."

"I know the story," Peter cut in, rather sharply. Caspian looked up, noticing the tone of his lover's voice. "He was a coward," Peter said bitterly. "He surrendered his land, his people, his crown, just so he wouldn't have to fight anymore. And what did he get in return?" He laughed humorlessly.

Reaching forward, Peter took the book from Caspian's hands and set it on the table. He turned the vellum pages until another illustration came up. It was King Peter again, and Queen Susan. One dressed in black, the other in white, both of them kneeling. There was man in dark armor standing above them, sword in hand.

"He was executed," Peter said, his tone flat. "They were both executed immediately, in front of the gates of Cair Paravel, their home. And then, the Telmarines, despite the agreement to let the King's subjects live, slaughtered the remaining Narnians and ravaged the land. A better man would have lived to fight."

"He died for his people, Peter," said Caspian softly, taking the other boy's hand. "It was an honorable…"

"He died for _nothing_," Peter said harshly, and Caspian could see how his cheeks colored with emotion.

"King Peter had hope, my love," said Caspian, gently patting the hand that lay over the book. "He was wise and he knew it was a war he could not win. He sacrificed himself for his people, with hope in his heart that they would live on."

"It was foolish," said Peter bitterly, "to give himself up, just so his people _might_ be saved. To die, to give up all hope for honor or glory…" His voice faltered, and his hand trembled in Caspian's grasp as he remembered his own story.

_Flame and steel. Fire and sword. No valor in such slaughter, only the cacophony of screams and bellows. He, himself, falling to his knees, arms spread wide to protect his sister, his brother._

"Well," Peter said, smiling wryly, "Seems I have more in common with King Peter than I thought."

"Perhaps I should put this away…" murmured Caspian, extricating the tome from under Peter's hand, watching his lover warily.

"No, it's alright," said Peter, reopening his book of poetry. "Don't stop reading it on my account."

The prince hefted the book onto his lap again, and flipped through the pages, reading quietly for awhile.

"There's a prophecy," said Caspian after some time, looking intently at a page.

"There's always a prophecy," Peter snorted from across the table. "I don't believe in them."

"It says that the heir of the King and Queen, an unnamed child, was sent away before the fall of Cair Paravel. It is a great legend, that with their death, King Peter and Queen Susan gave up their immortal souls so that one day, after hundreds of years, their descendants can retake Narnia, restoring the land to its former glory.

Peter and Susan shall be born anew, and take the throne back from the Telmarine conquerors, making Narnia as great as it was under Peter the Magnificent, the High King, first of that name."

"And so, generations of people began naming their sons Peter and their daughters Susan," Peter replied, shaking his head. "It's silly. There were at least ten boys with the same name in my village. Horribly confusing."

Caspian laughed at Peter's tone. He spread the book on the table once more, smoothing out the vellum pages. "Look," said Caspian. "There's a drawing of the ancient heirlooms. The sword and shield, passed down from Peter the Magnificent himself. And the bow and arrow of his sister, Susan the Gentle."

To humor his lover, Peter smiled and glanced where Caspian was pointing. A strange look came over his face as he looked at the colorful ink drawing.

"It's not a cup," he murmured, brushing a finger along the print of Queen Susan's ivory quiver and red-fletched arrows protruding from it, like tongues of flame, "but a quiver."

…………………………………………………..

That afternoon, Dr. Cornelius stole Caspian from Peter's side. The prince had been neglecting his studies and his tutor wouldn't stand for it. Caspian left Peter with a tender kiss and a whispered promise to be back soon.

As soon as he was gone, Peter had asked Rynelf to escort him to the warehouse again. Rynelf had refused at first, of course, but Peter pleaded with him. It would just be a visit, he wanted to see Jacob, and what harm would it do?

So, Rynelf, nervous and with his hand on his sword hilt the whole time, took him to the warehouse. The guards did not apprehend them, to Peter's relief, courtesy of the crown prince's protection.

Peter ignored the stares of the guards and the other laborers as he entered the slaves' bunkhouse, only having eyes for his old friend. He happily ran into Jacob's waiting arms, laying his head on the old man chest.

"I was so worried about you," said Jacob, stroking his hair. "When you didn't return that night, nor the night after that, I thought something terrible had happened to you."

"No," said Peter, unashamedly shedding a few tears. "Nothing terrible at all. Oh, I've missed you so much!"

"I missed you too, my son. You're looking well," said Jacob tilting Peter's head back to look into the boy's face. "Where have you been?"

And they sat down next to each other, Peter talking animatedly about Caspian, about how happy he was. Seeing the boy's face transformed by joy, Jacob did not have the heart anymore to tell Peter that such a love was wrong and dangerous.

Peter found himself laughing, babbling on and on about how in love he was with the prince. For the first time in a long time, Peter felt like he had a parent, someone older and wiser to confide in. Someone to tell his heart's secrets to, unreservedly.

It was late when Rynelf came back for him, the young guard tapping his foot anxiously as he watched Peter doze lightly on Jacob's shoulder.

"Prince Caspian is wondering where you are," said Rynelf. "He wants you to return."

"Well tell him to wait," said Peter grumpily, blinking open his eyes. "Just because he is my lover doesn't mean he can tell me what to do."

Jacob chuckled softly. "Now, my son, you best be going. It wouldn't do to keep the prince waiting."

The old man opened his arms, and Peter embraced him once again. "Remember, Peter, no more visits down here. The prince may have offered you sanctuary, but the guards down here are vicious and cruel. It's best not to tempt them."

Peter nodded solemnly, sitting up. The visit was over, it seemed. Leaning down, he kissed Jacob's wrinkled brown cheek and gave his friend one last hug before Rynelf led him away.

When he got back to Caspian's chambers, the prince was livid, of course. Peter had expected no less. Caspian called him careless and foolish, and didn't he _tell_ Peter over and over to _stay in the room_ when he wasn't there?

Caspian was surprised when, instead of defending himself or yelling back, Peter embraced him and laughingly gave him butterfly-light kisses on his face and lips. The boy's happiness melted away the prince's frantic anger almost immediately.

………………………………………………………….

"Tell me about your family," said Caspian, as they lay in bed together that night.

Peter shifted slightly, turning so he faced the prince. The rain was falling outside, the noise of water hitting the glass windows with tiny taps.

"My father died when I was thirteen," he said in the dark, reaching for Caspian's hand beneath the covers. "Telmarine soldiers attacked our village, and my father fought back. He was killed."

"I'm sorry," whispered Caspian.

"It was a long time ago," said Peter wistfully, closing his eyes for a while. He pillowed his head on Caspian's arm, snuggling close. "I lost my mother the same night. They took her away, as a prisoner, along with many other villagers. I haven't seen her since. I don't know where she is now."

"It must have been hard on you."

"It was," said Peter. "I was left all alone, and I was so afraid. But I learned to be strong, to be brave for my sisters and my brother. My sister Susan… she became my best friend after Mother left. She was only twelve, but she cared for Edmund and Lucy as if she was their real mother."

"Where is she now?" wondered Caspian, fingers sliding through Peter's hair.

"I don't know," said Peter, with a sad laugh. "I don't even know if she's alive or dead. She ran off to join the Resistance when she was fifteen. I remember I felt so betrayed, so angry. But after awhile, I realized that I understood her, and I was only jealous of her because she was braver than me, more impulsive. If I hadn't been held back by my family, I probably would have joined her."

"You _are_ brave, my love," said Caspian. "But you loved your family, so you stayed behind to take care of them."

Peter chuckled. "I wasn't the only one who wanted to run after Susan," he said. "Lucy wanted to go with her. She's always looked up to her big sister. But," he said thoughtfully, "I think it was Edmund who took it the hardest when Susan left. He loved her the most out of all of us, it seems. He was her pet, her Lamb, and when Susan left, he became so angry and bitter, I hardly recognized him."

Peter sighed deeply. It seemed so long since he thought of them. What were Lucy and Edmund doing now? These thoughts drifted in his mind as he slowly drifted to sleep, Caspian's quiet breath against his forehead.

……………………………………………….

"The preparations for our war with the Narnians are progressing," Miraz's sonorous voice echoed in the cavernous throne room. "Construction continues, unhindered. However, new taxes must be levied for the making of weapons and the acquisition of horses."

The council stirred uneasily at the king's words. New taxes, new laws, more soldiers and resources from each and every one of them.

"My king," said one of the younger Lords, seated at Miraz's right. "Ever since your majesty has become our sovereign, this council has been ever supportive to your rule. But, each of us has only so many men and funds at our disposal. These times are harsh, my king. The great winter approaches and supplies and the number of soldiers are short. If I am permitted to speak freely, what war must we prepare so diligently for? There seems to be no battle, no conflict…"

Miraz's dark eyes focused on Lord Drinian and the man silenced himself. He was the young successor to Lord Belisar, before the king had him killed, a fact that he remembered each passing day. Drinian's throat worked nervously, but he sat up straight and held the king's stare.

"My good Lord Drinian," said the king, his cold voice giving the man shivers. "Surely you jest. Are the savage Narnians rebels not, at this moment, attacking our forces and causing turmoil in my kingdom? Would you deny your country the means to fight back?"

"But sire, they are just a band of young Narnians! They are hardly soldiers…"

"Do you question me, sir?" said the king dangerously, as he stood up from his throne. Miraz was not a large man, but stormy black eyes and his imposing stance made Lord Drinian shrink down in his seat. "Are you suggesting, that I am wrong in preparing to strike? That the Narnians are no great threat, and I, perhaps, have gone paranoid in my age?"

Drinian paled at these words, and he knew that he was done for. The slamming open of the doors to the hall turned the king's attention away and the young Lord breathed a sigh of relief.

"The heavens themselves forbid that anyone would suggest our king has grown paranoid," said Lord Sopespian, striding into the throne room, his traveling cloak trailing behind him. "I am not late for our meeting, I hope?" The bearded man stood boldly in front of Miraz. It was obvious he had just come from a long and arduous journey. There was dust on his boots and cloak, and the Lord looked tired, but determined.

"Ah, my good Lord Sopespian," said Miraz, an exaggerated smile on his face. "I see you have returned safely."

"I'm afraid so, yes," said Sopespian, unceremoniously unclasping his cloak and letting it fall to the floor, two servants rushing to pick it up.

"Well, then gentlemen," said the king, turning to those assembled. "This council is adjourned." The nobles quickly got up and filed out of the throne room, eager to leave, sending uncomfortable glances at Sopespian, who remained behind with the king.

The doors to the throne room shut with an echoing clang, leaving the two men alone in the room. There was silence between them, as Sopespian scrutinized the king, arms crossed over his chest. Miraz, almost nervously, turned to walk back to his throne and sat down once more.

"It's good to see you again, my old friend," said the king finally, a cocky smile back on his face.

"I'm afraid I cannot say the same for you, old friend," said Sopespian.

"You would do well to remember who is the king here," growled Miraz, a ringed hand squeezing an armrest.

"And _you_," said Sopespian in a similar tone, striding forwards to stand in front of Miraz, "would do well to remember who helped you onto that throne! Without my aid, it would be Caspian and not you, who would be sitting there, wearing your crown."

Miraz glared up at his advisor, but Sopespian was not daunted. "You sent me out to the Wild Lands of the North for a _month_, Miraz! There was no mission, no purpose for such a trip, but to remove me from your court. I am one of your loyal advisors, yet you treat me like a traitor!"

"Lord Sopespian, your travel to the north was essential to our war. The machinery is being built as we speak, and your scouting mission was necessary to map out the regions where they can be moved…"

"You are a madman!" snarled Sopespian. "You _have _become paranoid, unreasonable! Men, trees, coal, you have taken and used for this so-called war, but when will you see that there _is_ no such war? A few skirmishes in the outer Narnian villages are no cause for such measures!"

Sopespian began to pace angrily in front of the king. "The people are growing discontent, Miraz. You take and spend too many resources, levying ridiculous taxes, in this lean season. What good will come of this?"

"What better way, my friend, to assert my power, than to exterminate the vermin once and for all?" said the king, his voice low and hard. He stood, walking up to Lord Sopespian and laying a calming hand on his arm.

"My late brother's son is growing into a man. Caspian the Tenth already has the love of the people with his soft heart and his foolish ways. But, he is not to be crown prince much longer, if my queen gives birth to a son. My line, Sopespian, must be declared as the ruling dynasty with an iron fist. By wiping out the remnants of that savage race," Miraz's fist clenched, "I will show the people exactly _who_ is their king."

The king smirked as the other man looked at him with unbelievingly. "Of course," he said, "With the unfortunate _retirement_ of Lord Erimon, I will be needing a new Chancellor, Lord Sopespian." Miraz looked meaningfully at him.

"Ahh, I see," said Sopespian, a power-hungry smile creeping onto his face. He chuckled and stepped back to give a short but respectful bow to the king. "Then, your majesty, I shall, with all haste, see to the bringing of my troops to the capital for the war."

"Good man," said Miraz, watching as Sopespian turned to walk out.

"Oh, and speaking of our beloved prince," remarked the royal advisor casually, stopping just before he reached the doors. "He seems rather jovial as of late."

"Does he?" said the king, an eyebrow arching upwards.

"I saw him as I was arriving here. He was sitting at the well, talking to a rather ravishing young creature. A Narnian boy who seemed rather enamored with the prince."

"Was he?" said the king, softly, sitting back down on his throne.

"Yes," said Sopespian with an amused smile. "It seems our Prince Caspian has a young suitor. I'm surprised, Miraz. I would expect such a lovely lad would have already joined the ranks of your many courtesans. Yet you seemed to have let this one slip from your grasp, letting your young nephew become his master." The Lord laughed, and left the room.

Miraz remained at his seat, eyes growing darker with his thoughts. "Well," he spoke to himself, a thin finger running through his beard. "It seems my dear nephew has finally outlived his usefulness."

………………………………………………

Thanks so much to everyone for sticking with this story! Please feedback and lemme know what you think!! :)


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Warnings: This story will contain dark themes such as nonconsensual sex, slavery, violence, mild torture, etc.

Chapter 10

They were sitting by the well, on a sunny day, Peter's head resting on Caspian's shoulder as they talked idly about anything. Enjoying the weather. They had a game of draughts spread out on the ground, and each boy was trying to flirtatiously pinch and grasp the other's fingers rather than concentrating on moving the game pieces around.

A dark bearded man, walking briskly and wearing travel-stained clothes, passed the two boys, followed by his servants. As he walked past them, the man stopped briefly to give a short bow to the prince, which was acknowledged by Caspian inclining his own head.

As the stranger straightened up, however, his dark eyes settled on Peter, giving the boy an appraising look, almost a leer. Peter shivered, glad when the man continued on his way.

"Who is that man over there?" said Peter, just as Caspian caught his hand and kissed it.

"Him?" said Caspian, holding Peter's hand in both of his own. His eyes followed Peter's to the man's retreating back. "His name is Lord Sopespian, and he is advisor to my uncle." He gave Peter a curious look. "Something the matter?"

"No," said Peter, shaking his head, as if to clear away unpleasant thoughts. "He gave me a strange look is all."

………………………………………………

She stood, tall and still like a dark statue, eyes to the sky. The air in the Narnian camp was tense as Susan waited for the messenger. The ordinary noises of weapons clanging, wood being hammered, talking, or cutlery clinking were subdued. The trees themselves seemed to be hushed, the branches hardly swaying in the wind.

Susan stared up into the horizon, face somber, hand shielding the sunlight. Then, her eyes lit up as she saw the flying beast up above the line of trees, fast approaching.

In minutes, the golden-furred gryphon glided down in front of her, landing with a thump on the grassy ground, muscles straining and feathered wings beating to kill the momentum.

"What news, friend?" called out Glenstorm, who had come forward.

"The king has part of his infantry stationed at Beruna," panted the gryphon. "But the heavy cavalry still protects his stronghold in the north."

"How many knights?" asked Susan.

"At least five hundred, Lady," the gryphon replied.

Susan's hands tightened at her sides. Five hundred horsed knights, each armed with heavy armor and weapons. It was a force to be reckoned with, that was certain.

"Five hundred it is, then," she said steadily, with a nod. "Their numbers do not matter. Our strategies and our soldiers' strength will not fail us."

She turned to Glenstorm, and they shared a deep look of understanding. Nodding subtly, the centaur turned to the assembled Narnians, who had gathered to watch.

"We march to Beruna, and then, to war!" he called out, raising his fist in a mighty salute. Immediately, the camp erupted into loud cheers, bellows, and whistles.

"Narnians!" Susan cried out, stepping forward, hands spread wide. "Each and every one of you has fought with me, bled with me. Your pain, your suffering, has ever been my pain, and my suffering. Every loss, every ounce of blood, of effort, that each of _you_ gave to this army, I have felt, compounded, in _my_ heart."

She looked into each of their faces, the faces of animals, of all manner of strange creatures, of men and women, girls and boys. They looked back at her, eyes shining with trust and devotion.

"The time for raids and skirmishes is over, my friends, my brothers and sisters, all. At Beruna, we will invite the tyrant king to war, and we will show him our might!"

The army's voices arose again, in shouts of triumph. There were deafening cries of "Narnia!" and "For Aslan!" amongst the throng.

"This army," continued Susan in a solemn yet heartfelt voice, "is not only bound by duty and honor, but love and hope as well. May love, and not fear, hold you to our cause! I will have you swear no oaths of allegiance to me, but to the Mighty Lion, King of all kings, and King of the wood! Tomorrow, we march, and our strength shall shake Miraz from his throne and down to his knees!"

Her words had driven the Narnians into a frenzy. They were cheering, stamping their feet, beating their weapons on the ground.

……………………………………………….

Edmund sat sullenly in Susan's tent, knees drawn to his chest, trying to ignore the racket outside. He watched Lucy rummaging curiously through their sister's things. He pulled a face as the little girl giggled, pulling out Susan's suit of chain mail and holding it up.

"Look, Ed," she squealed happily, "I could wear it too!" Lucy shoved her arms and head through the mail and it fell, the rings tinkling merrily, to her feet, billowed around her ankles like a dress that was too long.

"Don't be a goose," muttered Edmund, and Lucy pouted.

As her brother sat with his chin in his hands, Lucy giggled some more and lifted the excess part of the hauberk in her hands as if it were a skirt. She twirled a little, enjoying the merry jingling noises the chain mail made.

"Lucy," came a rather scolding voice from the opening of the tent and Susan stepped in, the cloth of the tent flap rustling as she pushed it aside. "You know you shouldn't play with that. It's not a toy."

Susan walked over, smiling when Lucy ran over to hug her around the waist. "Do I look like you, Su?" asked the little girl, holding her arms out, the oversized suit of mail looking rather ridiculous on her.

"Darling, it's not a dress," Susan chided softly, fumbling with the suit to take it off. "Wouldn't you rather wear a nice, pretty dress, hm?"

She removed the hauberk from Lucy, careful to not let it get caught in her sister's hair. After putting the mail away, she sat Lucy down on a stool, took out a brush, and began to brush Lucy's hair while her sister happily kicked her small feet in the air.

Edmund looked at the girls with a dreary expression. He was chagrined that Lucy seemed to have completely forgiven Susan while he still couldn't. How easy it was for his sister to forget two years of pain and loneliness!

He watched her, following Susan's fingers with his eyes as they stroked and ran through Lucy's short locks. The slim, pale fingers, so like Mother's. The sight was so familiar, one girl, tall and dark-haired, bending over the younger one, brushing hair. Susan hummed as she worked with the brush, the warm, lilting voice sending shivers of nostalgia through the boy's body.

"Oh, Edmund?" said Susan, breaking him out of his trance. "The campfires will be lit soon. Why don't you see if you can go find something to eat?" She gestured towards the outside of the tent with an inclination of her head.

Edmund got to his feet with a sigh. He felt emotional all of a sudden, as if Susan's quiet lullaby had broken some kind of wall inside of him. He had an impulsive desire to embrace her as Lucy did, but he held himself in check, content just to watch the back of Susan's kirtle swaying as she continued to brush Lucy's hair. How he loved her and feared to lose her! And what he wouldn't give so that there was no war, so that they could be a family again.

………………………………………………

"So it's a declaration of war then," said Miraz, the parchment laid out before him on the desk top. The note had been found wrapped around an arrow. The arrow had been found buried into the back of a Telmarine soldier, sprawled half-dead over his horse that had limped back to the castle grounds.

"Shall I ready the cavalry, sire?" said General Glozelle, who was standing at Miraz's side.

The king chuckled. "This is an army Narnian bandits, general," he said. "Half the cavalry will march to join our troops at Beruna. We will crush them there, once and for all."

"Will you march with us, sire?"

"Yes, I shall. It is time for me to meet this… so-called _leader_ of the Lion's Army. But, all in good time, general." The king rolled up the parchment and slipped it into a drawer.

"For now, I have family business to attend to."

………………………………………………………………..

"There's a storm coming," Peter said, looking up into the sky.

"Pity," said Caspian. "I was hoping to see the stars tonight."

Caspian's arms were wrapped around Peter's waist, from behind. They stood at the roof of the tower, the place where they had first declared their love to each other. The prince kissed the cool softness of Peter's cheek, nose nuzzling into the blond hair.

There was a sudden bang, and the door to the stairwell burst open. The boys jumped apart, startled. Two guards stepped through the door, but they barely looked at the two boys. They walked to either side of the doorway, and stood at attention.

Caspian gasped as another figure emerged from entrance, stepping between the two guards. It was his uncle, King Miraz. The king's fur-lined cloak slid gracefully behind him as he stepped through, surveying them with his glittering black eyes. Caspian felt as if his blood froze, and he heard a low gasp from Peter.

"Well, well, Prince Caspian," the king drawled, walking up to them, piercing eyes directed at Peter, who looked terrified. "Fancy seeing you here, my nephew."

Caspian quickly stepped in front of Peter, shielding him from Miraz's sight. "Uncle," he acknowledged tensely with a slight nod, trying to quell his nervousness.

Miraz made a quiet noise in his throat, a laugh that sounded like a purr. He walked lazily over to the left, circling the two of them. "So, this is where the crowned prince spends his evenings," he said, a hint of disdain in his voice.

"Hiding up here in a tower, stargazing. Wiling away your time gathering clouds in that head of yours. And who is that behind you?" Miraz mocked. He walked closer to them, making Caspian back up. The prince could hear Peter's frightened breathing and grabbed his hand, squeezing comfortingly.

"What a lovely paramour," the king said with a smirk, tilting his head to look at the blond boy. "No wonder my nephew hides himself up here. He has such a charming distraction to keep him away from his studies."

"We are not harming anyone by being up here…" said Caspian, swallowing reflexively.

Miraz laughed quietly. "Of course not. Step aside, good Caspian, so that I may look upon this young man who has enchanted the Crown Prince." He gave a little gesture of his hand, as if batting away a fly.

Caspian did not budge. He stared steadily at his uncle, refusing to be intimidated, the presence of the boy behind him giving him strength. "No, uncle," he said, jaw set.

"_What was that_?" said Miraz, eyes narrowing.

"I said no, uncle."

_Crack!_ Before Caspian could blink, Miraz slapped his nephew hard across the cheek. Peter gasped sharply as Caspian's head snapped to the side with the force of the blow. The prince gritted his teeth, fighting back the tears that sprung to his eyes at the sharp pain.

"Say that again, _boy_?" hissed the king, teeth flashing in the torchlight.

Caspian, who had always feared his uncle a little, ever since he was a boy, thought that Miraz never looked so large or terrible. Still, he was hardly a little boy anymore.

Slowly, deliberately, Caspian turned his head to look defiantly up at his uncle, ignoring the stinging red mark that was already showing up.

"I said…_no_, uncle. I'm not stepping aside."

Miraz looked furious, a storm brewing in his dark eyes. The king raised his arm, as if to strike Caspian again, but then, at the last minute, seemed to change his mind. Miraz dropped his arm, and an uttered a cold laugh.

"How terribly amusing," he said, sneering. "Tonight is the first time you're finally showing some backbone. And all it took was a pretty little Narnian slave boy."

"He is not a slave, uncle," Caspian said, jaw raised rebelliously, still grasping Peter's hand. "Not anymore."

"You, my prince," growled Miraz, his voice dying down to an enraged whisper, "overstep yourself. You think you can change the status of one of the king's subjects without _my_ permission? That the slave is not a slave because _you _wish it? You forget yourself, Caspian."

"Sneaky, little boy," Miraz continued to taunt, stepping forward again, grinning when Caspian backed up until he had Peter pressed against one of the turrets behind him. "Greedy little prince. You found a whore that took your fancy, and like a thieving, gluttonous snake," another step, another sneer, "you took him for yourself. Don't you know, beloved prince, dear prince, that you can have _nothing_ that _I _do not choose to give you?"

He was towering over Caspian, glaring down his nose at the prince with blazing eyes. Caspian, however, refused to yield. The prince grabbed both of Peter's hands from behind, squeezing to reassure himself as much as to reassure the other boy. He was trembling, and could feel Peter trembling. Never, had he been in such _dangerous_ proximity to his uncle, and he was frightened.

"My King," Caspian said, forcing his voice to be still but unable to look his uncle in the eye.

"My Uncle," he whispered, hating that his voice was dying in his throat, even as he forced himself to speak. "You cannot separate us. I won't let you."

Cruel laughter, mirthless and frigid. "We shall see," said Miraz. After a tense moment, king backed away. He turned around with a swirl of his cloak and walked towards the door, exiting without another word, the guards following him silently. The door slammed behind them, but bounced off the frame to slowly creak open again, the sound deafening in the silence that lingered.

Caspian let out a huge breath he didn't know he was holding, and released the death grip he had on Peter's hands. He heard the boy fall to his knees behind him. Caspian quickly turned around and stooped down to gather the shaking body into his arms, vaguely aware that he, himself, was shaking just as hard.

…………………………………………….

It was strange, Peter decided, how natural it was, sleeping in the same bed as Caspian. The Narnian was sitting on the edge of the mattress, bare feet on the rug, hands fiddling with the hem of his night shirt as he waited for Caspian to come to bed. The flickering of the candlelight cast long shadows about the room

At home, he and Edmund had shared a small, rickety bed that creaked during the night. From experience, Peter would have thought that sharing a sleeping place with someone would be horribly complicated and uncomfortable. Where to put one's hands? How much of the covers should one use without disturbing the other occupant? What about legs? With Caspian, however, none of these problems had ever arose. It had all seem to fall into place, the minute their heads touched the pillow. No matter how they slept, his head resting on Caspian's chest, laying side by side, or spooned together, they just _fit_, like two pieces of a whole.

Peter shook himself slightly, to stop his mind from wandering. He felt numb, had been feeling numb ever since the encounter with Miraz earlier that night. What would become of them now? What would they do? Or, more importantly, what would the king do? He was no longer only afraid for himself. He shivered, hands tightening.

"Are you alright, Peter?" said Caspian, and Peter looked up, surprised to see that the prince had been standing there for awhile, looking down at him.

"I'm cold," Peter said softly, lowering his head again, not knowing what else to say. He felt the mattress dip as Caspian sat down next to him. The prince sighed, reaching over to Peter's lap, taking one of Peter's pale hands in his own, giving it a weak squeeze.

"It's going to be alright," Caspian said. He didn't quite sound like he believed himself. "He can't do anything to us, Peter. He won't."

Peter didn't reply, just put his head down onto Caspian's shoulder, letting the prince stroke his hair, the gentle pressure on his scalp calming him.

After a few moments of the quiet stroking, Peter felt Caspian's hand still. He shifted his head just as Caspian turned his face towards him, and their lips met. It was a mild kiss, a mere brushing of the lips, but a caress so heartfelt.

"We should get some sleep," said Caspian, when they parted. Peter nodded, and pulled his legs up on the bed, lying down and burying his face into the pillow. He heard Caspian blowing out the candles, instead of snuffing them out, and the room was dark. Caspian crawled in next to him, and Peter moved closer for warmth, resting his head on Caspian's shoulder as the prince's arms wrapped around him comfortingly. His eyelids were so heavy.

He fell asleep, lulled by Caspian's breathing, but he found no repose in his dreams. He dreamt that he was suffocating, unable to move, unable to breathe. He fumbled in the gray mist, fumbling for Caspian. It was so cold, so dreadfully cold.

Peter awoke shivering. It was still night, not even hours away from dawn, from the look of the sky outside the window. He could hear Caspian breathing next to him, and he knew the prince was awake too. Peter sat up with a sigh, arms wrapped around himself.

"Can't sleep either?" Caspian whispered from where he lay. Peter shook his head.

"I'm so cold, Caspian. Please, hold me."

Caspian sat up, brushing mussed dark hair out of his face. He moved away briefly to light a candle with a sulfur match, then came close to Peter, wrapping his arms around the smaller boy. Peter closed his eyes, unaccustomed to the light, and leaned into Caspian.

They didn't speak. They were afraid, afraid of their feelings, afraid of what was to come, and so, so afraid of losing each other. Caspian held Peter, for how long, he didn't know. Then, slowly, he let go so he could take a look, a good look at the Narnian boy.

The prince drank in the sight of Peter, committing to memory the ocean blue eyes, the way the candlelight illuminated each cheek, making the skin seem like it glowed, the hair that looked like dark honey in the dim light. Caspian kissed each of Peter's cheekbones and the forehead, breathing in the scent of the blond bangs.

"Do you know what this is?" Caspian said, pushing down the collar of his shirt and revealing a chain around his neck, from which hung a golden ring.

Peter smiled wanly, fingers reaching over to brush the ring where it lay against Caspian's warm chest. "You told me it was your mother's" he said.

"It was," said Caspian, smiling sadly. "My father gave it to her, as a token of his love." The prince grasped the chain and slid it off his neck. He pressed it into Peter's palm. "Here, I want you to have it."

"Caspian, I can't take that," Peter protested, but Caspian closed his fingers around the trinket, leaning over to kiss him again.

"Keep it," whispered Caspian against Peter's lips. "I've had it for so long, ever since my mother died. It's a little piece of my soul, a little piece of _me_, and I want you to have it."

Nodding, with tears in his eyes, Peter opened his hand and let Caspian take the chain and fit it around his neck, letting the golden ring fall down to rest against his heart. Peter picked up the ring in his fingers and studied it. Such a delicate little thing.

"'To Deiana, with love that lasts for as long as the stars brightly glow, guiding us through the night,'" Peter read off the inscription. "It's beautiful, love."

He embraced Caspian, wrapping arms around the broad shoulders, hands clutching desperately, and Caspian embraced him back, just as desperately. Neither of them knew what awaited them in the morning, but both of them felt in their bones that Miraz would not let the issue rest.

"I won't let him hurt you!" declared Caspian fiercely, fingers buried in the blond locks. "I won't, Peter, I…!" His voice caught in his throat.

"It's you I'm worried about," Peter sniffled.

They didn't kiss again, they didn't make love, just held each other through the night, both of them knowing that every second they spent together was precious. Eventually, they dozed off in each other's arms, limbs sprawled all over, covers askew and tangled.

It was a loud pounding noise that woke them, and they jumped up, alarmed. The candle had long since sputtered out, and they could tell it was still an hour before dawn. Rain was splashing against the glass window. The knocking grew louder, followed by the outside door being forcefully opened inwards.

"Stay here!" Caspian ordered tensely, quickly flinging the covers over Peter, as if to hide him. The prince stood, drawing a dressing gown over his sleep clothes, just as the door to the bedchamber burst open.

Caspian forced a neutral look onto his face, quelling the nauseous fear in his stomach, as three armed men stormed in, lanterns held up.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded in the most arrogant tone he could manage, hands balling into fists. He planted his feet firmly onto the floor, placing himself in front of the bed, in front of Peter. "Why do you disturb my chamber at such an hour?"

"My prince," said a new voice, and Caspian gasped, paling, as General Glozelle stepped forward. The general had a grave look on his face.

"General, what is going on?" Caspian asked, unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

The general paused before speaking, as if the words he held on his tongue were a great burden. "The king, my prince, has ordained that you take a pilgrimage to the Wild Lands of the North. It is necessary, and tradition, for your coming of age, to make such a journey, to cleanse the spirit and mind. I, and these men, will escort you as far as the city gates. We leave within the hour."

"_What?"_ gasped Caspian, feeling faint. There was a broken cry from Peter, who had gotten out of bed and now stood next to him, despite Caspian's warnings. The blond gripped the prince's hand, eyes wide in consternation.

"There will be no need to pack any belongings, your majesty," Glozelle continued. "Everything has been prepared. Your tutor awaits, and will travel with you."

"I won't go," Caspian declared. There was a silence in which Glozelle leveled his gaze at the prince, who was clearly shaken, but still determined and angry.

"It is not a request, my prince," said the General, "but the king's order. If you do not come, we will have no choice but to take you by force." The three other soldiers started forward, as if to seize Caspian. The prince stopped them with a glare.

"So is this it, then, general?" Caspian said, staring up at his old instructor. "I am to be banished from my own home, the home of my forefathers? The home of _your_ former king and dearest friend, general?"

Glozelle flinched slightly at the mention of Caspian IX, but he remained resolute. "The horses await you, my prince," he said simply.

"I see," said Caspian, teeth clenched in anger and hurt. "Loyalty, my general, does not seem to run too deeply in my uncle's house."

"My loyalty is to the king," said Glozelle softly but sternly. "_The horses await, your majesty._"

The prince sighed in resignation, head lowered. It seemed like a lead weight was crushing down on his heart, and only Peter's hand, strong and warm on his arm, kept the prince from swaying on his feet.

"Let me say goodbye," Caspian said to the general.

_Let me say goodbye._ Glozelle gazed at the prince, and then at the pale boy standing next to him. _Let me say goodbye_… So fair, the general mused, his eyes fixed on Peter, and Peter stared back. So young, so young. The familiarity of the situation was haunting. Firelight from the lanterns, instead of torches this time, flickered in the blue eyes.

"Let the prince say goodbye," the general ordered, and he and the other soldiers promptly retreated, leaving the two boys alone in the room.

As soon as they were alone, Caspian enveloped Peter in his arms, hugging him with despair. Peter was crying, and Caspian realized that he was crying too. Caspian was trembling uncontrollably, never wanting to let go of the boy in his arms, but he forced himself to release Peter and look him in the eye. He needed to say what he meant to say.

"Peter," he breathed, wiping furiously at his face. He took the boy's shoulders in a strong grip, staring intently into watery blue eyes.

"Peter, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Please. All my life, the people in this castle have kept information from me, refusing to tell me things. They believe me naïve. But I've seen things, and I've heard things. I know things about my uncle, such terrible things." He took a deep, fortifying breath before he could continue.

"You must swear to me, that if he comes for you again, you will welcome him with open arms. You must _not_ refuse him! Promise me, Peter!"

Peter gaped at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief. The boy paled and let out a choked breath of incredulity.

"How dare you?" Peter whispered. He shoved Caspian off of him, staring at the prince as if he were a stranger. Before Peter even recognized his own action, his arm whipped out and he slapped Caspian across the cheek. The resounding crack of skin on skin echoed horribly in the room as both boys panted with emotion.

"How _could _you ask that of me!" Peter cried, his voice laden with hurt and betrayal.

"There was a girl once," said Caspian quietly, his eyes lowered, holding a hand to where Peter slapped him, almost as if savoring the touch left behind. "She was a Narnian slave, brought in from one of the outer villages, like you. She was lovely and young, and Miraz saw her. He wanted her, and she was so young, so pure. She was like _you_, Peter! And Miraz tried to make her his lover, but she refused. She rebuked him, fought him. For awhile, her defiance amused him, and she was allowed to live. But then, when she refused him one too many times…" Caspian broke off with a shudder, but forced himself to continue.

"I've only heard rumors, gossip, whispered tales from the servants and guards. They say Miraz took her to the dungeons, the torture chambers. He had terrible things done to her. She was mutilated, Peter, a thing half-dead when they let her out. Then, they fed her to the hounds, let the beasts tear her apart while she was still alive…"

"Stop!" Peter screamed, hands clapped over his ears. He was sobbing, shaking all over. "I won't betray you, Caspian, I won't!"

"Listen to me, damn you!" Caspian shouted, suddenly angry, grabbing Peter by the arms. "You won't be betraying me, you fool, you'll be keeping yourself safe!"

Caspian's fury only lasted for seconds, as he stared into Peter's horror-stricken face. The prince collapsed to his knees, hands held out imploringly.

"_Please_, Peter," he begged. "Promise me. Promise me you won't give Miraz cause to harm you! I'd die if you were hurt. If my uncle wants you, then you must let him have you, promise me!"

"_Shut up!"_ Peter nearly shrieked. He lashed out and struck Caspian, again and again, not caring if he hurt him. Hands that had so tenderly stroked the handsome face now clawed and hit, seeking to injure.

"I love you!" Caspian cried out, grabbing both wrists. "I love you, I love you…"

Peter let out a pain-filled wail, then collapsed onto Caspian, falling on the prince's neck, weeping and struggling.

"I love you," Caspian whispered again, running his hands over the trembling body. "I _will_ come back for you. He can't keep me away. I'll come back, Peter, I swear to you!"

There was a loud sound of someone clearing his throat, and Caspian turned to see Glozelle standing at the door, giving him a pointed look.

"It's time to go, my prince," the general said. He strode forward and clapped a firm hand on Caspian's shoulder. Caspian ignored him, gently tilting Peter's chin up and sweetly kissing him on the lips, hands framing the tear-streaked face. Then, the general was dragging him away, out of the room, out of Peter's sight.

………………………………………

Peter was sitting on the mussed-up bed, knees drawn to his chin, arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes were blank, staring at nothing. Caspian was gone, and Peter felt utterly empty, drained. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, Caspian's last words ringing in his mind.

He barely noticed when Rynelf came in and stood next to him, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Slowly, he looked up into the warm face of the young guard.

"I am here for you," said Rynelf. "I will do all that is in my power to protect you. I was, and still am, the prince's man, and I will not fail him as your guardian, even now that he is in exile."

Peter smiled, a weak, tired smile that came from pale lips. He laid his own hand over the one on his shoulder with a look of gratitude. "I want you to leave," he said softly.

"Of course," said Rynelf, withdrawing his hand. "I will leave you to your thoughts."

"No," said Peter, still hanging onto Rynelf's hand. "I want you to leave me. Go home to your family, and forget about me. Please."

"I don't understand…"

"You are one man, Rynelf. What do you think will happen if Miraz's men come for me and you stand before them? I wouldn't want you dying for me, not for me."

Rynelf stiffened. "Peter," he said, his eyes shining brightly with some unspoken emotion, "what good is my life, as a soldier, if it is not given freely in the name of duty, honor, and love?"

_Love?_ Was that a wistful look in Rynelf's deep brown eyes…?

Peter smiled again, warmly. "Yours is too honorable a life to give up for one such as I. Please, Rynelf. You are a good and worthy man. Grant me this one wish, and go live in peace."

After a while, Rynelf left the room, tears in his eyes, and Peter still sat on the bed, silently. Presently, when his joints began to ache from being in one position too long, he got up, went to the bathing room. He then dressed himself plainly, in clothes that Caspian had tailored for him.

He was standing in front of the window when they came for him at last. He was clutching Caspian's old quilt in his hands, staring blankly out at the gray morning. It was so cold.

He heard their footsteps long before they came into the room. He did not turn to face them. He knew what they were here for, so why turn around? Deiana's ring, hanging from his neck, was a comforting weight as he heard their booted feet against the floor. So cold…

Peter had expected them to attack him, to grab him roughly, to strike him, perhaps. He was not expecting an arm to snake around his neck, a hand pressing a cloth to his nose and mouth. An oily, sweet substance permeated his breath, and he cried out in surprise. There was almost no struggle. In a matter of seconds, everything around him grew hazy and his eyelids slipped shut. His hands relaxed, dropping the quilt to the floor as Peter slumped backwards, into waiting arms.

………………………………………………

Notes: I wanna thank everyone for reading my story! Please feedback and lemme know wat u think!


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Warnings: This story will contain dark themes such as nonconsensual sex, slavery, violence, mild torture, etc.

**WARNING: BAD STUFF HAPPENS TO PETER IN THIS CHAPTER!!**

Chapter 11

The king entered the room, closing the door behind him with a click. No guards in the chamber with him, now that the captive was duly subdued. Miraz's mouth curled into a smile as he looked upon the figure on the bed, the tip of his tongue darting out as if he were a viper, licking the pink lips.

The Narnian boy lay on top of the green embroidered covers, limbs slack and sprawled out, eyes closed, mouth partly open. The golden hair was falling into the fair face, the tips of his bangs brushing against pale eyelids, the silky locks framing his head against the velvety green of the pillow.

The boy, though barefoot, was still clothed, shirt, trousers, and belt in place. That would change soon enough…

Like a deadly jungle cat, the king prowled over to the bed, where his lovely prey lay pale and helpless, like a sacrifice. Miraz's dark eyes scanned the length of the unconscious boy's body.

The king's lips parted, his teeth baring into a predatory grin. His hands moved to untie the knot at the waist of his gold and black dressing gown. Sensuously, languidly, Miraz rolled his shoulders and let the robe slide off his body and fall to the floor with a whisper of silk. He was nude underneath, all bronze skin and toned muscles.

One of the boy's calves was closest, and the king reached out and touched it, savoring the feel of the muscle underneath the cloth. His hand moved upwards along the leg, not pressing, not grabbing, just stroking. Miraz sighed lustfully, though he had yet to enjoy any carnal pleasures yet.

Peter moaned softly, his drug-addled head shifting slightly on the pillow as his body registered a strong hand traveling up his leg.

Miraz smiled, hand reaching between splayed thighs, fingers lightly trailing over groin and pelvis. Perverse pleasure made the king's blood grow hot at the confused noises Peter was making.

The ringed hand slid up to the waistband of the boy's trousers. Deft fingers languidly undid the ties. He didn't touch the flushed skin underneath, not yet. That was to be saved for later.

Miraz lowered himself onto the bed, his naked skin pressing into the cool sheets, making the mattress dip. Peter moaned again, tossing his head, brow wrinkling in mild distress. Miraz chuckled, knowing the senseless boy would not be able to put up much of a fight no matter what transpired. The medicine would do its job.

He slid a hand up the loose shirt, touching the bare flesh, laying a palm against the flat abdomen. Grinning, he plucked a tender nipple between two fingers, watching the unconscious boy flinch and squirm.

With one hand still underneath Peter's shirt, Miraz bent down and covered the plump, pink lips in a kiss. The sweet innocence of Narnian boy's quivering mouth was intoxicating. Miraz moaned obscenely, pushing his tongue in, violating the boy's mouth. The king's other hand came up to grasp the boy's cheek, the supple flesh yielding under his insisting fingertips.

As his other hand continued to stoke the boy's bare chest, Miraz withdrew his mouth, looking down at Peter's face, happy with what he saw. Peter's cheeks were flushed, his lips apart and gasping lightly for air.

Miraz bent back down to trail his tongue along Peter's neck, when the boy uttered a strained and broken plea, "Caspian…? Caspian, please…"

Miraz immediately froze, halting his ministrations.

_Caspian!?_

With a snarl of disgust he pushed himself off the boy, yanking his hand from the body as if repulsed. _Caspian, Caspian, Caspian!_ His insufferable nephew, the bane of his life. Even now, in exile, the brat's existence plagued him. The king flung himself off the bed, arousal fading fast.

In the womb, that boy had tormented him, securing Miraz's brother's right to the throne. Through his childhood and teenage years, Caspian had ever been a challenge to his rule, the people favoring the soft-hearted prince. And now, his nephew's hated name was even on the helpless lips of the Narnian slave!

Angrily, Miraz yanked his robe back on. He glared over at the unconscious boy, his lust all but gone. Well, if threats, bribery, and drugs hadn't worked to help him sate his desire in the boy, perhaps some more _forceful_ methods of persuasion might be employed.

……………………………………

The bonfire was a liquid mass of heat and light, burning and burning, smoke reaching to the high heavens. The steady rhythm of stamping feet and hooves was like the heartbeat in her chest. The fauns were dancing, a wild, graceful dance, around the fire. Drums were beating, keeping each step in time. It was the night before the battle, the battle that would be remembered for all time.

The Narnians were chanting, beating their fists and feet in time to the haunting music. It was wilder than anything Susan had ever heard or seen. There were no humans present, only her, and what they called the True Narnians: beasts and creatures, children of the earth and the sky, Aslan's children.

It was a dance of war, a chant of vengeance. The rape of their land at the hands of the Telmarines would be finally avenged, after hundreds of years. Susan, Daughter of Eve, scion of kings and queens, though she did not know it yet, would lead them to victory. Tarva and Alambil, Lord and Lady of the heavens, would see it done.

As the last step of the wild dance ended, the fauns panting with exertion and their naked torsos glistening with sweat, Susan stood. The chanting stopped, and all was silent as the Narnians gathered around her. Her blue eyes seemed to glint black in the firelight. Her raven hair was unbound and wild.

"Narnians!" she called. "Tomorrow, we will meet the tyrant king on the battlefield. We will look upon him, and we shall know no fear!" The cheers arose, cries and hails, mingling with the stamping of feet and hooves.

"Flesh for flesh, blood for blood, life for life, we shall have our revenge!" she cried, lifting her bare arms up to the sky, and the following roar of the Lion's Army was deafening.

Edmund came to her that night. She woke when he entered her tent, his thin form looking lost and forlorn, silhouetted by the moon. Without a word, she held aside her blankets for him, and he crawled in, a lonely little boy. He fell asleep against her breast, her fingers stroking his soft hair.

_Here,_ she thought, _was something to fight for, something to live for._ No thoughts of avenging the cold, dead land. Not for Susan, on the eve of battle. Just thoughts of keeping her family safe, of the warm body in her arms.

…………………………………………………..

With a terrific splash, the burly guard yanked up the head of blond hair and the boy, coughing and sputtering emerged from the tub of rancid water. Peter choked, mouth open and gasping, trying to draw in air.

He was on his knees, hands bound behind his back, bent over a wooden tub of icy cold water, dirty and stale. Before he could draw another breath, he was dunked in again, the meaty hand pushing him down, holding him under. He struggled, of course, panicking, even though he knew it would make it worse.

After what seemed like hours, he was pulled back up, cruel fingers yanking on his tresses. He coughed, gasped, heaved, the freezing liquid dripping from his nose and mouth. His sodden tresses covered his eyes, obscuring the sight of the dark king, sitting there and watching.

The elegant toe of a booted foot came forward and prodded him under the chin, lifting his head up so that he gazed blearily into the face of Miraz, sitting on the wooden chair before him. The king was watching him with interest and mild amusement as he shivered and wheezed pathetically.

The king was looking at him with a questioning look, a quirked lip and a raised brow. Peter stared back, glaring the best he could, ignoring the presence of the guard behind him.

Defiance, Miraz saw, clear and loud in those blue eyes. So be it then. He removed his foot, letting the boy's head drop back down to his heaving chest. Miraz nodded to the guard.

Peter was grabbed again, his head pushed back into the water, held down as he wriggled futilely, knees scraping on the rough floor of whatever dungeon he was in. He was drowning, his lungs burning. His eyesight was turning black.

With a mighty pull, the henchman pulled him upright again, and Peter coughed, gagging on the air, head lolling about as he struggled for breath. His lips were turning blue, his eyes red and swollen.

Miraz spoke, his voice echoing in Peter's throbbing ears. "You know you can end it. You know what I want. Why suffer like this, boy? Why?"

Peter closed his sore eyes, letting the muffled voice of his enemy slide over him as the water was sliding over him. He imagined that he was safe in his lover's arms, safe and warm, and it gave him strength.

Miraz sighed with the air of noble impatience. He gave a lazy gesture of his hand, and with another splash, the boy was pushed back down into the tub, the shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Over and over, he was drowned. Over and over, he was brought back up, coughing and spluttering like an animal. The king was growing bored.

"You make me believe that you don't wish to live, boy," he drawled, as Peter was brought up again, wracked with coughs. The guard grabbed the golden hair, pulling it back so that Peter looked into Miraz's face. It must have been quite painful, for the pull on his scalp made Peter groan when the boy should have been too breathless to do more than gasp and wheeze.

"Your refusal to acquiesce angers me, Peter. I might be tempted to have you dragged out right now and have your head cut off with an axe."

"Then kill me and be done with it!" Peter gasped out, his voice hoarse. "I'd rather die than have your disgusting hands on me!"

Miraz leaned forward and struck him in the face, backhanded. Peter cried out, the cold, almost-numbness of his face making the pain all the worse when hot gashes were opened up on his cheek. Droplets of blood and water hit the ground as Peter's face snapped to one side.

"But you let my nephew touch you any way he pleased, didn't you?" the king sneered. "Don't play the virgin, boy, we both know you are anything but that." With sarcastic gentleness, the king reached over and brushed wet hair out of the boy's face, tucking it behind an ear.

"How long did he have to seduce you until you fell into his waiting arms, hmm? What did he offer you? Did he promise to make you a prince, like him?"

Peter felt sickened at his words, hating that the king was mocking something special, something sacred. "Love," Peter whispered through numb, bruised lips. "He offered me love."

Miraz laughed. "Ah yes, love. Of course. A prince's love is quite a gift, my boy… but the love of a king is far greater. And besides, when my wife gives birth to a son, your beloved Caspian will be a prince no longer. Instead, he will become someone wholly expendable…"

Before Peter could register the implications of his words, the king's eyes caught on something shiny that had tumbled out of Peter's shirt. Some golden bauble that was hung on a chain around the boy's neck. He reached over and grabbed it, snapping the flimsy chain. It was a ring.

Peter gasped, eyes widening in horror as Caspian's token dangled helplessly in Miraz's hand. The king chuckled, playing with the gold trinket, rolling the ring between thumb and forefinger.

"Dear Deiana's ring," Miraz said mockingly. "How Little Caspian treasured this, wearing it around his neck like a medal. Never took it off. He must love you very much if he has handed it over to you."

"Give it back," Peter demanded heatedly, knowing full well that the king wouldn't.

Miraz sighed and stood. "Enough," he said lazily, tucking the ring into a pocket of his robe. "I tire of this. When you come to your senses boy, then we shall talk. In the meantime, perhaps your time down here will teach you to obey your king." The king's eyes flickered to the guard behind Peter. "Be careful not to mark his face… too badly."

With that, Miraz walked out, the sentry shutting the door behind the king. The guard behind Peter laughed a laugh that was way too cheerful, and roughly grabbed a shaking shoulder. Peter, on his knees and utterly helpless, could not stop a frightened whimper from escaping his throat.

………………………………………………..

Rain was falling from the sky. Big, fat droplets fell on and off her armor like crystal tears. Like pearls of water, sliding off of her metallic helm.

The sky was grey and the air was cold as she stood before Miraz for the first time. It was before the battle, and she was strangely calm as she faced the leader of the opposing army. Dark, arrogant, and strangely handsome, in his own way.

They met at Beruna, on one side of the River Rush. Miraz was sitting on a makeshift throne, two servants holding large silken parasols over the king's head, shielding him from the rain.

As Susan studied the Telmarine king, Glenstorm stood by her side, silent and respectful. The king was looking at her curiously and rather scornfully, as if offended by the sight of a woman in armor.

"So you are the commander of the Narnian rebels?" Miraz spoke up, but he was not speaking to Susan. He was addressing the centaur. "Who is this woman that stands before me?"

Susan smiled, an eyebrow quirking upwards. To Miraz's credit, he was taking the appearance of the centaur quite well, which was more than most of the other Telmarines.

"Mighty King," she said sweetly, dipping into a bow. "_I_ lead these people."

She was prepared for the derisive laughter that followed. "You, girl?" Miraz said disdainfully. "Surely you do not mean to mock me so. Is the 'Lion's Army' made up of fools and children, then? I bring my men on a three-day's march to meet with you, only to find out that I will be fighting a woman in petticoats!"

"There are no fools that stand behind me," said Susan, ever so softly, blue eyes serene. "Only soldiers, brave and true." She leaned forward towards the king, ignoring the look of warning the general gave her, who was standing to Miraz's left.

Boldly, she stepped into the shade of the parasol, through the gray veil of rain so that her face became all the clearer to Miraz. "You killed my father and my mother," she said. "You stole my brother from me. You've laid my family into ruins. That, would give any girl-child, any frightened infant, any lost bird, the strength and reason to fight you, my king."

The king lost his cocky grin as the chit moved uncomfortably close to him. Why did he feel so unsettled? He looked at her face. He studied her eyes, her mouth, the lines of her chin. With a little chill, he recognized the features.

"_Pevensie," _he growled.

"Susan," she corrected. "I see you know my brother. Where is he?"

"His suffering in my torture chambers as we speak," the king snarled, hoping to rile her.

Susan's mouth tightened, her hand clutching harder on her bow. "On the battlefield," she said simply, "I will be searching for _you_. And before this is over, _you_ will be the one to suffer, my king."

She stepped back, melting back into the rain, as if passing through a beaded curtain. She and Glenstorm retreated. Miraz and his servants fell back as well, each leader calling their troops to arms.

The rich music of the horns was sounded, followed by the clamorous battle cries of the Narnian army. Susan felt every scream of triumph, of valor, pushed back into her own throat until every cry was her own, bursting forth from her mouth in a mighty battle cry: "FOR NARNIA!!"

Like water over rocks, the storm of Narnian soldiers charged forth, Susan at the forefront, mighty yew bow in hand, deadly arrow notched. The Telmarine infantry, their armor glistening in the rain, marched forward like a deadly tide of black metal.

The Narnian line crashed into the Telmarines, Centaurs with their elegant blades flashing, fauns with their mighty broadswords. As her people charged forward on either side of her, so fast and furious she felt the ground shake, Susan shot arrow after arrow, never missing her mark, felling soldiers with each powerful stroke of her arm. The constant singing of her bow was her music, the accompaniment to the raucous cries of war.

Through the rain, she twisted her body, spinning and twirling to find her targets, beads of water flung from her hair and weapons like silver pearls. Her arrows, straight and true, cut through the rain like daggers cutting through silk, burying into the vulnerable spots of Telmarine armor.

Like wraiths in the night, the Narnians attacked fiercely, mercilessly. The Telmarine infantry, who marched in formation, was cut down, line by line. Then, there was a noise like thunder as the cavalry charged. Each horsed knight was a fighting machine, a monster made of armor sharp blades.

Yet, the Narnians were undaunted. No need for walls of spears when there was an army of valiant mice. Reepicheep and his brave knights rushed forward, almost invisible. With their tiny swords, they cut down the horses, spearing the vulnerable legs. From above, the gryphons attacked, dropping boulders upon the horsed soldiers, crushing them. Without his mount, a Telmarine rider was helpless, tumbling down into the mud. The cavalry, Miraz's greatest weapon, was rendered useless in a matter of minutes, and the Narnians rejoiced, fighting ever harder.

Susan fought like a wild woman, shooting her deadly arrows and using them to stab at any Telmarines that got too close. "FORWARD!" she cried, raising her bow high above her head, and the Narnians charged, wave after wave, Susan running with them, in the midst of them.

She halted suddenly, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears as she drew in a gasping breath. Through the grayish mist of water and death, she saw the Telmarine king, horsed and helmed, fighting, but surrounded by a ring of his own people, protecting him. She notched another arrow, her eyesight narrowing.

"Glenstorm!" she called, and the loyal centaur galloped up to her, his sword in hand. He reached out for her, and she grabbed his forearm, vaulting herself onto his back. Hugging his flanks with her thighs, she held on as the both of them charged forward, the centaur bellowing his battle yell, cutting a bloody path in the battle field, heading for Miraz.

Instead of rushing straight into the protective ring of soldiers around the king, the centaur dashed around them, and Susan, smiling grimly, cut them all down with her deadly arrows. They fell, one by one, until Miraz was surrounded by a circle of corpses.

With a hand on Glenstorm's shoulder, Susan pushed off and landed on the ground. As the centaur galloped off to rally the rest of her troops, Susan headed for the king, slowly and deliberately pulling an arrow from her quiver, bow clutched tightly in the other hand. Miraz was desperately trying to control his war horse, the poor dumb beast rearing and screaming.

He saw her approaching, blue eyes cold as ice, and he jumped down from his mount. He turned to face her, drawing his sword, face red and furious. _How?_ he wondered.

As his horse screamed and ran away, Miraz hefted his shield up before him, drawing the sword back, point aimed at the girl who stalked towards him. With a scream, he rushed at her, intending to cut her down, but his blade hit air as she twisted like a dancer, the blood-red skirt of her kirtle flaring out behind her.

Before he could blink, her arrow was notched, and pointed at his neck, her grim lips twisted into a smile as her arm drew the string back, prepared to end his life.

Foolish girl, to get so close. He snarled, and swung his shield at her arm, smashing the arrow into bits. Her eyes widened in pain as she stumbled back, one of her leather bracers torn clean off in a spray of blood. Shock registered on her pale face as she scrambled backwards.

Miraz charged at her, sword raised high, yelling ferociously. She brought up her bow to defend herself, but his sword cleaved it in two. Susan staggered, her teeth shaking with the force of the blow. As Miraz swung his sword again, she leaned backwards, and the blade cut through the air above her head. She twisted sideways, escaping Miraz's line of attack.

Dropping the useless halves of her bow onto the ground, Susan's hand darted to her waist, and she drew her own sword, barley managing to block yet another attack from the king. The blades clashed loudly together. Man and girl glared into each other's eyes as Susan and Miraz circled each other.

He charged forward with a mighty yell. The clang of steel rang out in the air as she met him blow for blow. Still, he was forcing her back, step by step, using his superior weight and height to rain down punishing blows that left her arms trembling with exertion.

One clumsy step, and she fell to the muddy ground, with a pained cry. Still, even as he thrust his blade down at her, she rolled to the side, her sword lashing out and cutting into his leg.

The king fell back with a roar, his leg bleeding through the armor. The little witch had been clever, slicing where the armor was most vulnerable. She had already gotten back on her feet, her white teeth bared into a snarl. Her helmet had fallen off, and her black hair was wet, clinging to her face and neck. For the first time in a long time, Miraz felt his heart lurch uncomfortably with fear, because in her eyes, there was no fear for him, only rage.

Glozelle, blessedly, ran to his aid that moment. The general, ever loyal, pushed the injured king back and kept Susan at bay with his sword. "We must retreat, your majesty!" the general shouted. "They are too many!"

"Then call the retreat, you fool!" Miraz snapped, leaning heavily on Glozelle's shoulder. Glozelle flung the king's arm across his shoulders, and landed a terrific blow at Susan's blade. She was forced to take several steps backwards and before she could recover, Glozelle had dragged the king to safety, running behind the Telmarine line. At the general's shouted order, the soldiers retreated running over the bridge of Beruna as the Narnians gave chase, cheering and yelling in victory.

"Halt!" Susan shouted, sword raised high. They stopped charging, falling back at her command. She was panting raggedly, her heart pounding. Her face tilted up to catch the cool drops that fell from the sky.

"Narnians!" she cried, and her voice was triumphant. "The bridge is ours!" The ensuing cries of the Lion's Army drowned out the noise of the river itself.

………………………………………….

The chains were digging into his bare arms, cruelly pinching and scraping the skin. He was so cold… so terribly cold. They had left him nude, hanging from his arms, adding to his humiliation by taking away what little protection his clothes offered. Peter breathed hard through his nose, biting into his lips to keep from sobbing out his despair.

"So you have grown mute again?" came the coarse voice of his tormentor, a heavily built guard with a scarred face and insatiable appetite for pain. "I have orders from the king, you know, that if you speak up and say what he wants to hear, I am to let you go. No words, Narnian?"

The guard circled Peter, walking in a lazy ring around where the boy hung suspended. The pale skin seemed to glow white in the darkness of the dungeon cell, the painful marks of the cane all too clear on the bare body. Around and around, the guard circled, silently, watching the trembling form as if Peter were some strange specimen of animal to be studied.

Just as Peter started to relax, to let out the breath he had been holding, the wooden cane whipped through the air with a hissing sound and slashed him on the back of his thigh. He groaned out sharply between clenched teeth as yet another line of fire erupted on his skin. The force of the blow drove him forward, and Peter stumbled, groaning again when his bare feet made contact with the floor.

They had whipped his palms and the soles of his feet bloody, so that even the slightest move caused an unbearable sting.

"Why do this to yourself?" said the guard, who was now standing right behind Peter, his foul mouth close to Peter's ear. "Why suffer like this?"

A booted foot kicked at his ankles, forcing his legs further apart. A large hand, callused and rough, touched the newly-bruised flesh on the back of his thigh. Peter whimpered, eyes closing in humiliation as the hand ran up the inside of his leg in a terrible mockery of a caress, smearing the blood that had oozed to the surface of the broken skin.

"But I suppose I do rather enjoy this, boy," said the guard. "I have grown fond of your screams as of late."

The guard stepped back abruptly and lashed at the vulnerable back, the supple cane tearing another red mark into the skin. This time, the boy cried out and the body rocked forward again, injured feet scrabbling to keep his ground. The large man chuckled, viciously excited by Peter's pain.

The man reached between the trembling legs again, fingers pressing into the inside of Peter's thigh. "Such soft skin," he mused. "I wonder if the king would be angry if I introduced one of my branding irons, right _here_?" He pinched the flesh between two fingers, making Peter gasp softly, shaking with fear. "Just a little burn," the man whispered, mouth eagerly pressed close to Peter's ear. "A little sting. A pretty little decoration…"

He stepped back again, and let the cane fall. Again and again, new wounds over old ones, until Peter's throat was raw from screaming. He didn't know that he swooned until he woke up, shivering, on the floor with his legs clapped in irons. The guard didn't brand him after all, and Peter managed to feel grateful.

In time, he learned that his tormentor fed off of fear as well as pain, and while he would inflict injuries that had Peter struggling not to shriek, the guard would always stop short of seriously damaging him. Still, the knowledge that, at least, he wasn't in any danger, did not keep the boy's skin from crawling when the guard whispered terrible things to him in the dark.

He didn't know how long he was kept down there, swallowed up in the darkness and the cold. _Mortification of the flesh_, he would tell himself over and over as he lay shivering on the floor, is _nothing_ compared to submitting to Miraz's dark and evil ways.

Peter threw righteousness around him like a shroud, tried to keep warm by imagining Caspian's arms around him, tried to block out the sickening sound of his tormentor's sadistic laughter with the memory of Caspian's gentle laugh. What else could he do?

He ate the rotten food that was thrown to him, always fighting not to vomit. He slept, but his dreams brought him no comfort. Hours bled into each other. Time became meaningless in the dark. How long had he been down here? How long?

A touch of cold steel against his arm. _No…!_

"I can cut you," the guard was saying, and Peter shook himself awake. He was hanging from his wrists again, his abused back against the rough wall of the stone prison. The man was holding up a long, serrated blade that glinted ominously in the sputtering torchlight.

"I am skilled in the art of the knife." Slowly, almost sensuously, the guard ran the steel lightly over the tender underside of Peter's forearm, not quite cutting, not quite nicking. "I can make a thousand cuts all over your body that would leave you squealing, yet not have you bleed to death."

_Please don't_, Peter wanted to say, wanted to beg, but he kept his lips pursed, eyes closed. _It's just a game,_ he told himself frantically. _Just a game that he's playing…_

There was a loud thump, the cold steel on his arm withdrawing, and Peter's eyes snapped open. The door to the cell had opened, and light was streaming in. Though it hurt Peter's eyes, the yellow glow was beautiful to his sight.

A man, accompanied by two cowering servants, stepped in, carefully pulling up his cloak so as not to soil it on the dungeon floor. At first, Peter thought it was Miraz again, but then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was a different man. Lord Sopespian, he recognized.

"Your Lordship!" gasped the guard, who had let the knife fall to his side. "His majesty, the king, has insisted that no one enters here…!"

"Silence, man. The king is not here to restrict where I choose to go," Sopespian intoned, and the guard fell silent.

Nonchalantly walking his way around the pools of filth on the floor, the Telmarine Lord stepped up to Peter, studying him intently.

"So this is the Narnian slave that has made my king so frustrated," Sopespian said with an amused smile. His eyes raked over Peter's naked body, and the boy flushed. How funny, Peter thought, that he could still be embarrassed after all he had been through.

"No wonder he is taken with you. Though," Sopespian's lip curled up slightly, "you aren't much to look at right now." Naked, emaciated from starvation, littered with cuts and bruises, Peter knew he wasn't much to look at, but Sopespian's words rankled him all the same.

"You can tell your king," Peter rasped painfully, hardly recognizing his own voice, "that my answer is still the same!"

Sopespian laughed, and Peter noted how different it sounded from Miraz's cruel laughter. It was light and natural, not dark and frightening. Yet, he could still sense an underlying cruelty and cold calculation in Sopespian's smile. Either his Lordship was indeed a nicer man than the king, or he was just better at pretending.

"My dear boy," said Sopespian, his eyes crinkling in mirth. "The king isn't here, nor anywhere else in the castle. He has gone to war, don't you know?"

Peter stared at him confusedly, through sore and hazy eyes. War?

Sopespian chuckled again. "Oh, don't worry. Our _beloved_ Miraz shall be back from Beruna soon, I think. Then, you can tell him yourself, as I expect he will be paying you a visit. Let us hope the king is victorious in battle, shall we?"

Sopespian took one last look at Peter, hanging limply from his shackles, then turned on his heel and left. The door closed, and Peter was at the mercy of the darkness again.

………………………………………….

"Glenstorm, where is my bow?" Susan asked, her eyes scanning the ground eagerly for her fallen weapon.

All around them, the Narnians milled about, attending to the wounded, checking for any dead. There had been minimal losses; their first great battle against Miraz was victorious. Still, the celebrations were muted, as they were sure that the war was far from over. Miraz had merely underestimated their forces this time, and the king would be quick to retaliate.

"We have not found it, but there are other bows for your use, Lady," said Glenstorm gently.

Susan sighed dolefully, hand holding on to the hilt of her sword, the feel of it unfamiliar in a hand that was used to holding a bow. She continued the search, though she was tired and cold. The bow, _her_ bow, was special to her. Even though it had been broken by Miraz, she wanted to salvage it.

After an hour, when she still had not found it, Susan gave up and finally let herself rest.

……………………………………………….

Peter was trembling. The floor felt like ice, and the thin, ratty blanket did little to warm him. The shackles around his legs were a constant and painful pressure. He coughed, unsurprised when blood flecked his lips. He lay on his side, face buried in his arms.

He didn't look up with Miraz entered the cell, just kept his eyes tightly closed. He could hear the limp in the king's footsteps, could smell the blood and anger on him. Peter was afraid, so ashamedly afraid.

Something was flung onto the floor, close to Peter. The boy dared a peek, and saw a wooden object. He glanced up at the king, who was silent, staring expectantly at him. With a trembling hand, Peter reached out and took it, dragging it closer to him.

A horrified gasp escaped his lips as he recognized it. _Susan's bow, splintered in two!_ Peter would recognize his sister's weapon anywhere. _Oh no…Susan…_

A cruel chuckle from Miraz. The king looked at Peter's face with satisfaction, savoring the boy's horror and distress.

"She was quite easy to overcome," Miraz said, the poison rolling easily off his tongue. "Just as I thought."

"No!" Peter gasped out in a broken wail, hands desperately clutching the broken pieces of his sister's bow.

"I wonder," Miraz drawled, "if you have become kinder in my absence? Hmm? Or should I go and find myself sweeter company, in your sister's cell, perhaps? She's quite lovely you know, once subdued."

The king turned his back on Peter, started to walk out.

"Wait!" Peter called frantically, and the king halted. Slowly, painfully, Peter stood, using the wall to support himself. He stumbled over to Miraz on bloody feet, arms wrapped around himself.

Smirking, the king turned. Peter, his stomach lurching with self-loathing, laid his hands on the king's robe pleadingly, and pressed his lips to Miraz's.

………………………..

Notes: sorry for the darkness in this chapter! Also, I hope I haven't angered any Narnia fans by letting Susan ride Glenstorm. I understand that centaurs don't take too kindly to letting humans ride them, but she did do it in the movie, so I hope that gives me some license. thanks to everyone for reading my story and all your kind comments. you guys inspire me!


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

**WARNING: MORE BAD STUFF HAPPENS TO PETER IN THIS CHAPTER!! REALLY BAD STUFF!! **** (Includes Non-Consensual sex!) **

**Chapter 12**

_Peter, golden-haired and beautiful, was dying. He lay upon a bed, his arms and legs spread out. There was a serpent, crawling up the side of the bed, eyes black as the night, fangs dripping poison, scales green as emeralds. Peter couldn't move, couldn't speak. _

_The snake coiled around him, it's scales so cold against his skin. It leaned over his face, and it struck. _

_It bit him, again and again, drawing blood, spitting venom. Peter was arching off the bed, crying out in pain. He was dying, dying. His eyes were growing dim, and the blood was draining from his face, and he was dying, but he could not die…_

Susan bolted upright in bed with a scream on her lips. She panted, hand wiping sweat from her brow. She was trembling from the nightmare, and had to shake her head several times to get the vision of her dying brother out of her mind.

……………………………………………..

Edmund was trying to get Susan's attention. She was busy, standing over a table covered in maps, discussing battle strategies with Glenstorm, who stood next to her. She was talking in a clipped, business-like tone, marking the maps and charts with quick fingers.

Edmund sighed impatiently. "Susan," he called. She ignored him.

"Susan!"

"Wait a minute," she snapped irritably, not even looking up.

Edmund huffed, crossing his arms. Glenstorm gave him a look, then cleared his throat.

"Perhaps we should discuss this another day, Lady," said the centaur, nodding towards Edmund, and he left.

"What is it?" Susan said unhappily. "I was busy, Edmund. There's a war going on! Couldn't it wait for just a few more minutes?"

"You promised that you'd see us off to the next safest village," said Edmund stubbornly, setting his hands on the table. "It's been a week, Susan."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "There's no time to be venturing out now! The Telmarines will be back soon enough, and I need to see to the soldiers' provisions and the number of swords, and where to-"

"You just care more about this war than you do about me and Lucy!" Edmund interrupted scathingly.

"Oh, Ed, you know that isn't true," she said, shooing his hands off the table and turning back to her maps. "There are people's lives at stake here. One mistake on my part, and Narnians will die! Why must you only think of yourself?"

"I'm not!" he declared angrily. "What about Lucy? Isn't she in this too?"

"Lucy's fine!" Susan snapped.

"Is she? How long has it been since you've checked on her? And what about Peter?"

Susan hand froze, reaching for a scroll. Her eyes hardened. "What _about_ Peter?" she ground out.

"You've forgotten about him completely, haven't you?" Edmund accused. "He's our brother! Don't you think we should do something to bring him back? Don't you even care?!"

Susan inhaled sharply, and refused to meet Edmund's eyes. "Peter can take care of himself," she said softly, bending down to pick up some papers that had fallen over. When she stood back up, Edmund had stormed off.

………………………………………………………_.._

The king's dining hall was a large, long room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Enormous glass windows, that took up whole walls, let in the light. There were long oak tables that spanned the length of the room, for the higher-ranked Telmarine Lords and officers of the army. There were lower, less ornate and much smaller tables scattered around the room for the lesser courtiers to sit at.

The king's own table was at the very far end of the room, a majestic seat in the likeness of a throne. The queen's place was to the king's left, and to the left of that, the empty seat of the Crown Prince, Caspian.

It has been a long time since Prunaprismia has taken her place next to the king, however. Miraz had deemed it unseemly for his wife to be seen with a pregnant body. She took her meals in her own rooms, isolated from the rest of the court.

There was another seat, to the right of the king's majestic chair. It was much lower, a sign of lower station. Though no one in the court dared refer to it as such, the seat was reserved for the Royal Courtesan, whomever the king was amorous with at the moment. Miraz was an arrogant and unscrupulous man, and he liked to show off anything and anyone he had power over, even in the presence of his wife.

That night, the arrival of the king made everyone's head turn. Miraz had entered the room, sweeping past the other occupants with pomp and dignity, as usual. But, the eyes of the entire room were fixed, not on Miraz, but on the pallid creature on the king's arm, a fair youth who had his thin hand curled submissively around the king's elbow.

As the king marched past, all the courtiers stood respectfully and bowed their heads, but whispers flitted back and forth between tables.

_A Narnian…!_

_The king's newest dalliance…_

… _poor-mannered, to be sure. Won't even raise his head to look at us… _

_Humph! Thin enough to be a wraith…_

…_wonder if the queen knows?_

General Glozelle, who stood at the head of his table, looked over at the boy with a sympathetic eye. Peter was decked out in freshly-tailored velvet clothes, cloak and doublet the color of red wine. His hair and face had been scrubbed clean. But the blue eyes were lackluster, and the cheek was pale. Glozelle's eyes caught a barely-noticeable cut on one cheekbone, and when the boy shifted, the general could see bruises on the wrists, as if they had been recently bound.

The king led the boy over to the lower seat on his right. Peter sat down, but looked up in confusion at the indignant gasps and whispers of the Telmarine courtiers. Looking mortified, the boy quickly stood again when he realized his breach in manners. No one sits before the king takes his seat.

Miraz, however, did not seem to be angry, merely smiling amusedly at Peter. With a dismissive gesture, and a courtly greeting to the people, the king lowered himself into his chair. Only after the king sat, the rest of the court settled down as well. Peter sat down, his face pink, eyes lowered to stare into his lap.

The servants brought out the courses of the meal, and the dinner progressed.

As the king engaged Lord Sopespian in conversation, Glozelle looked at Peter. The young man was silent and still, pale and withdrawn. He wasn't eating or drinking, just idly pushing the pieces of grain around on his plate. A terrible sadness seemed to weight on the young one's shoulders. He looked terribly out of place in the dining hall, despite the fine clothes he wore.

Peter, feeling someone's gaze on him, looked up and saw Glozelle staring. An uncomfortable tremor went through him, as he remembered the last time he and the general met. Glozelle had taken Caspian away…

Peter wanted to lower his eyes again, but the general held his gaze. Not taking his eyes off of the boy, the general signaled for one of the maids with a water jug. The man held out a cup for her to fill about halfway.

"For the king's guest," Glozelle told her, nodding in Peter's direction. The girl brought the cup over to Peter, setting it down in front of him. She gave him a rather disdainful look, before walking away. Peter stared curiously at Glozelle, whose eyes flickered meaningfully to the cup.

Not knowing what the general was playing at, Peter wrapped his hands around the goblet and drank the cool water, surprised when something bumped against his lips. With a soft gasp, he peered into the drinking vessel and saw something shiny at the bottom. As subtly as he could, Peter lowered the cup into his lap and fished out Deiana's ring with his fingers.

His heart thumped as Peter recognized Caspian's token of love, that Miraz had stolen from him. _But how_? Peter looked back at the general again, but Glozelle was now talking to someone else. Peter pressed the ring into his palm, feeling gratitude wash over him. The boy sneaked a glance over at the king, worried Miraz might have seen the exchange, but luckily, the king seemed more interested in whatever Sopespian had to say.

The meal wore on, and Peter could feel the courtiers' gazes on him. He could hear their whispers, buzzing like bees. What they must be saying about him, he didn't want to know.

During the last course, the doors opened quite suddenly, and everyone looked to the entrance of the room in surprise. Peter heard Miraz draw in a sharp breath and thump a clenched fist onto the table.

It was the Queen Prunaprismia, largely pregnant but no less imposing, sitting on a chair that was wheeled. The room went silent as her lady-in-waiting pushed the beautiful queen towards her table. All the while, her dark eyes were fixed heatedly on the fair boy sitting to the left of her husband.

Peter knew who she was, of course. No other woman could silence the entire Telmarine court just by arriving. The fact that she was Miraz's wife made him cringe, and he lowered his gaze again.

"My queen," said Miraz, annoyance evident in his voice, and he stood tensely. "You should be resting in your chambers. You risk your health greatly, and that of our child! You know you are very far along…"

"Indeed," said the queen. Her voice was as regal and rich as her husband's. "All the more reason for me to spend time with my husband, no?" She looked at Miraz's angry countenance, unfazed, and then flicked her eyes over to Peter, who flushed.

Her lady-in-waiting, after pushing the queen over to her seat, wrapped arms around Prunaprismia and helped her onto her chair, next to Miraz. The queen was panting with exertion when she was finally seated, and called for water. The conversation in the room had grown to a murmur, and now, they were all whispering about the pregnant queen.

"This is ridiculous," Miraz growled softly to his wife, sitting down and signaling for more wine. "What do you think you are doing, woman? This is obscene!"

"Peace, husband," she said calmly, eyes straight before her, hands folded primly in front of her. "Your presence in my chambers has been lacking, as of late. Is it so wrong for a woman to wish to be close to her husband?"

Her dark eyes shifted to rest on Peter again. Miraz followed her line of vision and smirked, understanding.

"Jealous, my queen?"

Prunaprismia did not respond. Slowly, she picked up her spoon, stirred her soup with it. Then, in an elegant motion, tossed it to the floor.

"You there," she said sharply, addressing Peter, who looked in alarm. "Pick it up."

Peter turned red, and shifted uncomfortably. He started to stand, but Miraz reached over and slapped a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"Enough, Prunaprismia!" he hissed angrily. "He is not your servant, but my guest. Do not try my patience, woman!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, my king," she said sweetly, as her lady-in-waiting handed her a clean spoon. They spoke no more.

………………………………………………………..

Peter stood by the window of his new bedchamber, looking out into the night. It had been awhile since he'd been allowed to retire from the dinner, and he knew the king wouldn't be long in coming.

Though there was a fire crackling merrily at the hearth, an icy chill stole over Peter's heart. He felt so cold, so numb. He glanced over at the bed, which had been turned down for him, the pillows fluffed to plumpness. It looked like a grave, a grave that he had dug for himself, made of silk and down, but no less frightening.

There was a dressing gown laid out for him at the foot of the bed, and he knew he was expected to wear it, but he couldn't bring himself to undress. The thought of it made his stomach lurch unpleasantly. Peter felt sick all of a sudden, and was glad he barely consumed anything at the king's table.

He thought of Susan. Was she safe? Had she been injured in battle? Peter knew she was a high-ranking member of the Resistance, so her capture must not bode well for the rest of the Narnians.

He remembered dark hair, falling into a lightly-freckled face, a rosy mouth, laughing and merry. He imagined happier times, when he and Susan played children's games and embraced each other without reserve. A sad smile graced his frozen lips. Would she be angry, or happy, if she knew that he had sold himself for her safety?

He thought of Edmund and Lucy. Where they safe? Was the village safe?

He thought of Queen Prunaprismia and her dark eyes, staring daggers at him. He thought of Rynelf, wondering if the young soldier had returned to his family. He thought of Jacob, down in the slaves' bunkhouse. His mind wandered as the minutes passed, and the hour of his doom approached. He thought of everything and everyone, but he tried desperately not to think of Caspian.

There was a pain in his hand, and Peter realized he had been squeezing Deiana's ring into his palm. Slowly, he loosened his grip, and saw that he had imprinted a circle into his skin…

The door clicked open behind Peter and he jumped slightly, drawing air through his nose. He didn't want to turn to look at Miraz, didn't want to face what was about to happen to him.

"Sire," he murmured softly and dipped his head in greeting, quickly closing his hand over the trinket.

Trying to appear casual, Peter walked quickly over to the bed, eyes averted. He made out as if he was smoothing down the sheets, but he surreptitiously slipped Caspian's ring underneath one of the pillows.

"You look lovely in this light," Miraz said huskily, and Peter grimaced, feeling sick again. He heard the king come up behind him, and felt strong hands slipping onto his shoulders. The king's hands felt like hot iron weights, and Peter had to fight to keep himself from shaking them off.

The king slid his hands down to Peter's arms, stroking them in what was supposed to be a comforting way, but it only made Peter's skin crawl. Miraz trailed fingers over Peter's chest and reached up to undo the clasp at Peter's collar. The cloak fell from Peter's shoulders and Miraz caught the fabric in his hands, pulling it off and tossing it over a nearby chair.

Peter let out a small noise of distress. He had prepared himself for this, trying to be strong, but now that Miraz was in the room with him, he wasn't ready for any of it…

Miraz's hands returned, smoothing over Peter's tense back, rubbing over his shoulders again. "Undress for me, my lovely," Miraz whispered hotly into his ear. "Show me that you accept me!"

Peter bit down hard on his lip. He was trembling, his body shuddering in revulsion and fear. He forced his shaking fingers to reach up and undo the top button of the sleeveless doublet.

"Turn around," the king demanded, and Peter had to obey. Miraz looked terrifying and monstrous, eyes coal-black with lust, the firelight throwing dark shadows across the bearded face.

Under the king's heated scrutiny, Peter finished unbuttoning and shrugged off the doublet. He hesitated, but at the pointed look from Miraz, the boy then lifted the hem of his shirt, and flushing deeply, pulled it over his head. Then, with clenched teeth, as if preparing to swallow a particularly bad draught of medicine, Peter removed undershirt, shoes, belt, and trousers, all under the appreciating gaze of the lustful king. Peter tossed the regal clothes haphazardly on the bed, too nervous to do otherwise.

However, his badly shaking fingers faltered at the waist of his drawers, the only piece of cloth left on his body. All day, Peter tried to keep his memories at bay, but now, they came rushing back. Memories of Caspian, of his lover, of how gentle the prince was. Peter remembered Caspian's love, and how tenderly he had touched him, and he realized, with his fingers clutching at the drawstrings, that he _couldn't_. He simply _couldn't_.

"What are you waiting for?" the king demanded, his voice harsh. "Take it off."

"P-please," Peter choked out, lips trembling. "I…I can't."

"_What?_" growled the king, taking a step forwards, making Peter back up until he felt his thighs hit the edge of the bed.

"I can't do this!" Peter cried, reaching behind him and grabbing one of the sheets to cover himself.

Without warning, the king's hand shot out and squeezed mercilessly around Peter's throat. The blue eyes bulged and pale hands struggled helplessly against the iron grip.

"You insolent whelp," the king said, in a voice of ice, as Peter gasped for breath. "Have I not been kind to you, boy? Do you dare disobey me, even now?!" With the other hand, Miraz ripped the sheet from Peter's body, furiously flinging it to the floor. No mercy was in those black eyes as Peter stared up into them in horror, wheezing desperately.

"I have not waited so long just to be refused!"

With a mighty shove, the king released the boy's neck, and Peter was flung backwards, thrown across the bed.

Peter coughed weakly, hand coming up to massage a bruised throat. Through hazy vision, he saw Miraz fling off his black and gold robe. The king was completely nude underneath, and Peter cried out in terror as Miraz descended upon him like a vulture.

The boy tried to scramble backwards, away from the king, but Miraz grabbed at him and flipped Peter over. One strong arm drove an elbow into the back of Peter's neck, pressing the terrified face down into the mattress, immobilizing him.

"I _will_ have you," Miraz snarled angrily as Peter struggled helplessly beneath him. "You think you can promise me your body and then _refuse?!_ You are _mine!_"

With the other hand, he reached down to the shaking hips and tore away the flimsy silk of Peter's drawers, leaving the boy utterly exposed.

"No! Don't, oh please, don't!" Peter was screaming, thrashing underneath Miraz, all reason and constraint banished by pure, animalistic fear. _He didn't want this!_

The king, undaunted by the anguished cries, grabbed the pale, scarred shoulders and flipped Peter over again. He slapped the tear-stained face, grabbed the blond hair and pulled it back, exposing the bruised throat.

"Who is your master, boy?!" the king roared furiously, striking the face again, ignoring the broken pleas and gasps. When Peter failed to answer, the king heaved himself onto the slender body, taking the hips in a bruising grip, prying the quivering legs apart with his own knees. There was no use in struggling or cries of denial, not in the face of such dark and brutal lust.

Even as he floundered and begged, Miraz took him.

It hurt, of course. Peter had never expected it to be gentle with Miraz, but it hurt like nothing else ever could. It was punishment, hard and cruel, a laceration of the soul as well as the body. Peter thought he would die.

The worst part was probably the utter _hopelessness_, the feeling of being alone in his suffering. No pitying ear to listen to shrieks of pain, no soothing hand to wipe tears away from a bruised cheek, nothing to calm the violent beating of a frightened heart. He was lost, drowning in a nightmare that was all too real, and no one was there to help him.

Peter closed his eyes as Miraz thrust into him, unable to look at the red, sweaty face leering above him. He couldn't bear it.

"Stop! Please!" he heard himself cry out, but his voice was lost in the obscene moans that came from the king. His wrists were pinned down on either side of his head, and Peter cursed himself for his weakness, his inability to fight back. His body was plundered by a man half-crazed, and he thought he felt something _break_ inside of him.

After what seemed like hours, Miraz finished with Peter, pulling out with a groan. The king plopped down beside the trembling boy, wiping his sweaty brow. Peter immediately pressed his face into the pillow, muffling his sobs, desperately needing comfort but finding none.

"Close your legs," the king said callously, already laying back to go to sleep. "You look indecent, all splayed out like that."

…………………………………………………

In the morning, Peter found blood on his thigh, and spots of red on the sheets.

Miraz was already gone before he awoke, much to Peter's relief. Someone had left fruit on the table, but the mere thought of eating made him feel sick to the stomach. Haltingly, gingerly, he got off the bed and stumbled, grimacing, to use the bathroom.

Someone had drawn a bath for him. Peter, wincing with pain when he lifted a leg over the tub, sank into the water, not caring that it was now icy cold. He scrubbed himself, washing away tears of humiliation and self-loathing. He scrubbed at his arms, his legs, everywhere that stank of Miraz's skin and sweat. He was too frightened to touch himself down _there_, not knowing what to do or how to fix the bleeding. More tears, hot and shameful were running down his face, unable to be held back by blinking.

Would it have been so bad, he wondered, if he hadn't been in love with Caspian? Or if he had just let Miraz do what he wanted, instead of being so contrary? He felt so terribly alone. His arms wrapped protectively around his knees in the water. Now, more than ever, he wished for his mother. He hadn't missed her this badly since he was thirteen.

When he started shivering from the cold, Peter dragged himself from the bath, clumsily drying himself on the towels. Thankfully, someone had laid out clothes for him. He dressed himself quickly, in case Miraz came back again.

He went to the bed and retrieved Deiana's ring from under the pillow. He hid it more securely underneath the mattress. Then, hoping that the king would not send for him, he left the room.

Stumbling frequently and clutching his aching midsection, Peter made his way through the castle to the slaves' bunkhouse. The guards didn't stop him. Instead, they kept a respectful distance, even lowering their heads slightly when Peter passed by. With a sinking feeling, Peter understood. He was now marked as the king's property. Miraz had claimed him, and the guards dared not abuse him.

The bunkhouse was empty, but he went in anyway, and lay down on Jacob's pallet, curling up and waiting for the old man to return. When Jacob did, at midday, he took one look at the despondent figure and rushed over to gather Peter up in his arms. Peter cried then, as Jacob gently rocked him back and forth, stroking his hair. He sobbed into Jacob's chest, hands clutching at the old man's shirt.

"Don't try to speak," Jacob whispered sadly, when Peter started to babble incoherently through broken sobs. "I know, my dear boy. I know."

………………………………

Notes: so sorry about this chapter! plz feedback and lemme know wat u think!!


	13. Chapter 13

Jacob hummed softly, smiling tenderly at the sleeping boy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Chapter 13:

The young Lord Drinian was cloaked and hooded as he made his way to the bunkhouse. He held the hood close to his face as he walked, warily looking left and right. He avoided all the guards and overseers, pressing himself into the shadows from time to time. The darkness of the dusk served to hide him from sight.

Drinian got into the bunkhouse without much trouble, and he quickly threw off his hood, looking around. The place was empty, except for one old man, who was sitting on the floor, next to someone who was asleep.

Jacob was humming softly, smiling tenderly at the sleeping boy. He stroked the wheat-colored hair with wrinkled fingers, watching Peter's chest rise and fall in slumber. Gently, the old man used his worn handkerchief to dab at the tears on the bruised cheeks. He looked up at the arrival of the young Telmarine, but after a cursory nod of acknowledgment, turned to Peter again.

"Lord Erimon," Drinian said, quickly walking forward.

"It's not 'Lord' anymore, Drinian, you know that," said Jacob softly.

"Aye, sir," whispered Drinian, and his face was nervous, eyes darting to the door. "I cannot stay for very long. We must talk quickly, or we might be caught." He glanced at the sleeping Narnian boy. "Is he…?"

"No," said Jacob, a bit sharply. "He does not know, and I want to keep it that way. The fewer people endangered, the better. Come, let us walk further off." Jacob stood up wearily, and he and Drinian moved to a corner of the room.

"Everything is prepared," said Drinian, his face pressed close to Jacob's ear. "Two nights from now, is the time we must strike. If I can keep the guards occupied, will you be able to do the task?"

"Yes," said Jacob lowly, "or die trying."

Both men started slightly at the small noise from Peter, but the boy merely turned over and murmured softly in his sleep.

"And…what of the king himself?" asked Drinian, a hint of fear in his voice.

"I will leave that to a higher power," said Jacob. The old man studied Drinian's face in the dark, frowning. "Are you hesitant, Lord Drinian?" he asked intently.

In a quick motion, Drinian drew a sulfur match from his sleeve and struck it against the wall. He held the flame up to his face and let it illuminate his flashing eyes, the lines of determination in his jaw.

"I have never been surer," Drinian declared fiercely.

Quickly, Jacob glanced over to where Peter lay, seeing that the boy was still slumbering. With a reprimanding look, he blew out Drinian's light, letting the darkness engulf them once more.

"Belisar was my friend, and a good man," the young Telmarine whispered. "I will not let his death be in vain. Miraz must fall!"

"They were all good men," replied Jacob, "and if all goes accordingly, then we will make sure that none of their deaths were in vain."

Drinian sighed softly, and lowered his face. He clasped Jacob's arm tightly. "Do you know what will happen if we fail? Our lives will be forfeit."

"No, _my_ life would be forfeit," said Jacob staunchly, as he squeezed the other man's arm. "If I shall fail, and let us pray to the heavens that I do not, I would not have you incriminated along with me. You are too valuable to Narnia, Drinian."

"You are a valiant man, Erimon," Drinian said, and he looked at the old man in admiration. "Good luck, my friend." The young Telmarine Lord hastily pulled up his hood again and, after checking the door to see if the coast was clear, left as quickly as he came.

Jacob sighed as Drinian walked out. He brought a hand up to his brow, touching his temples. He felt so tired.

Walking over to Peter, Jacob gently shook the boy awake. "Come, lad," he said cajolingly. "You've nearly slept the whole day away."

Peter moaned softly and rubbed his eyes. "When is it?" he asked hoarsely. His back was aching from sleeping on the floor and the darkness of the room confused him.

"Dusk," Jacob replied, and he helped Peter to sit up. The boy winced and hissed in pain as his weight fell on his backside.

"It hurts," Peter moaned, and buried his face into Jacob's neck.

"I know it hurts, my boy," Jacob said, rubbing Peter's back soothingly. "But it will get better."

"How?" Peter said, his face a gray mask of sadness. "How could it?"

"Trust me," said Jacob, and he pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead. "It will all be over soon."

……………………………………….

"When can I see my sister?" Peter asked, his voice dead and numb. Miraz didn't respond, but continued to pull at his clothes. Peter didn't struggle, and Miraz wasn't so rough as he pushed him onto the bed.

The king held his arms above his head, but not so hard as to leave bruises. It still hurt when Miraz entered him, and Peter couldn't help crying out. It felt so hot, and uncomfortable, and he was panting just as hard as the king was.

He grimaced when Miraz pressed messy kisses to his neck and moaned Peter's name in the lewdest possible way.

_When can I see my sister?_ Peter wanted to ask, but Miraz was groaning and sweating above him, tongue licking at his lips.

When Miraz finally finished, Peter immediately rolled away and curled up on his side. He hid his face in the pillows, but the smooth, cool silk did nothing to calm his ragged breathing. The sticky wetness between his thighs was sickening him.

"When can I see my sister?" Peter asked boldly, even as he let his tears slide down to the sheets. He hated to cry, the tears creating a warm sting against his face, but he couldn't stop.

"Making demands, boy?" the king chuckled lazily from where he lay. A hand groped at Peter's naked rear, and the boy flinched. "Have I not been kind enough to you already? Are you not surrounded by the luxuries that I provide? Or would you rather be sleeping in a cell again?"

"Please, sire," Peter whispered, clutching at the lace of the pillow beneath his cheek. "I need to know if she is safe."

The king gave a languid sigh, and stretched his body out before sliding a strong arm around Peter's waist and pulling him close.

"I promise you that she is safe and well," the king murmured into Peter's ear. And, even with Miraz's crushing weight on top of him, Peter smiled softly and brokenly in the dark, content in knowing that Susan was alright.

The next day, he wore the silks that the king wanted him to. He let the servants groom his hair. In the evening, he sat at Miraz's table, and shared the king's meal without complaint. He walked with the king, his hand around Miraz's arm, like a trophy. And at night, he let Miraz take him, all the while knowing that his endurance was buying his sister's life. And with a smile that was twisted with pain, a harlequin smile, he endured.

………………………………………………..

"Susan," Lucy said, her voice small and plaintive. "Where do we go when we die?"

Susan paused in her task of sharpening the blade of an arrowhead. She looked up at Lucy, who was sitting next to her, warming her small hands over the crackling fire.

"I-I don't know, Darling," Susan said, a bit uneasily. "Aslan's country, I suppose." Her own voice, speaking Aslan's name, sounded strange to Susan's ears.

"Is that where Mother and Father are right now?" said Lucy, and Susan could see moisture shining in her sister's round eyes.

"I'm sure they are," said Susan, with a smile that was rather forced. Lucy shivered a little and scooted closer to Susan. The air was cold and it smelled like snow. The camp was quiet that night.

"Is that where we'll go when we die too?" asked Lucy.

"Only if Aslan sees fit to let you in," Edmund chimed in, who was sitting a bit ways off. He poked at the fire with a stick, and his face seemed bitter and pale. "Isn't that right, Susan?"

"What do you have to do to be let in?" asked Lucy, turning her inquisitive face to her sister.

Susan sighed and set her tools down in her lap. "It's late," she said, glancing at Edmund. "And it's cold out. It's time you went to bed, Lucy, Edmund."

He ignored her, of course, and smiled a bit morbidly at Lucy. "You _might_ be allowed to enter His country… if you can find your way out of the Shadowlands. That's where you go first, before you ever meet Aslan."

"The Shadowlands?" Lucy said, and her voice came out in a frightened squeak. Susan shot her brother a disapproving look that went unnoticed.

"When someone dies," said Edmund, and the firelight made his face look rather fearsome, "they say his soul is banished to a dark, gray world, a world made completely of shadows. All the memories of his life, all the things he's ever done and all the people he ever knew, become nothing but ghosts. He wanders around, and forgets who he was in life."

"Edmund," said Susan warningly, as she felt Lucy begin to tremble.

"Imagine that, Lu," he continued. "Wandering around in a dark world, with only the whisperings of ghosts to keep you company, not knowing who you were, not knowing what your name is."

"But… then, how would you get out?" said Lucy.

"Well, you can escape, but only if you can remember who you are. If your deeds in life were valiant enough and good enough, then they will come back to you. If you can force yourself to recall your life and all your memories, then the shadows disappear. The grayness parts like a curtain and you are reborn into Aslan's country, called forth by His mighty roar…"

"I thought you said you didn't believe in Aslan," Susan cut in, frowning. The dreamy look that stole over her brother's face disappeared instantly.

"I don't," Edmund said snappishly. "It's just a story." He tossed his stick away with a huff.

"But, Edmund," Lucy said pleadingly, "anyone could remember their own life, couldn't they?"

"Not in the Shadowlands," said Edmund. "Not when everything you ever knew turns into gray, and your very name eludes you. Some are too ashamed to remember their deeds, or too afraid. Those who can't remember, are doomed wander the darkness forever, never knowing who they are, always chasing the ghosts of their past but never quite catching them."

"Edmund, that story is hardly appropriate," Susan reprimanded.

"Why not?" he complained. "_You're_ the one who told me about it."

"It's late," she said, "and Lucy doesn't need to hear ghost stories before bed." There was a tremor in her voice, as if she was the one who was unsettled by Edmund's tale. Susan stood and packed up her tools, but her fingers were shaking, and she nearly dropped her knife.

………………………………………………..

When Peter went to look for Jacob at the slave's bunkhouse two days later, the old man was nowhere to be found. Something had happened the night before, something violent and terrible. Peter could tell by the frightened whispers and the barely concealed fear in the eyes of everyone else there. They avoided his gaze and his frantic questions, ducking their heads when he got too close.

There was a commotion in the courtyard, and Peter ran outside. What he saw made him gasp and run forward. There were two armed guards, and they had seized Jacob and were forcing the old man to his knees. Peter could tell Jacob had already sustained multiple injuries, and he was infuriated when one of the guards struck the old man in the face.

"Stop!" Peter shouted, rushing towards them, and two more guards appeared to hold him back. "He hasn't done anything wrong! Let him go!"

Peter struggled, but they flung him back. More soldiers were arriving, and they formed a ring around the prisoner. Peter tried to run forward again, but he was held back by sword point.

"Jacob!" Peter called, and the old man lifted his head to look at the boy. Though the wrinkled face was swollen with bruises, the warning in Jacob's eye was clear: _Don't get involved._

"Wh-what's happening?" Peter demanded, trying to calm his pounding heart. "What has he done?" The other slaves had gathered around, looking glumly but silently at the beaten old man.

There was a stir in the crowd, and the throng of soldiers parted to allow the king to step through. Miraz, flanked by his honor guard, strutted purposefully up to the prisoner, who still knelt.

With a sneer at the old man, the king raised his head to look at the gathering of frightened Narnian slaves.

"I want this to be a lesson to all of you," Miraz called out. "This man," he pointed at Jacob with his hand, "is guilty of high treason against me. And today, he shall die a traitor, and his death will be an example of all who dare to plot against me!"

"No!" Peter whispered, horrified blue eyes fixed on Jacob, who had not even raised his head to meet the king's accusations. _Oh, please, it isn't true!_

"No!" a small voice cried, and Peter saw Gilbert rush towards the throng, arms held out as if to fight.

"Don't, Gilbert!" Peter yelled, and rushed over to grab the boy's arm. The boy struggled, kicking and weeping, but Peter held on tightly and pressed the dark head to his own chest. "It'll be alright," he whispered, even as he gazed in horror at the scene before him.

Miraz had drawn his sword and was standing before Jacob's bowed head. The king looked viciously happy, almost gleeful.

_Oh, no, please no! Not Jacob, please, not Jacob! _Peter thought as he realized what he was looking at. It was a public execution!

"Look upon your king, traitor!" Miraz snapped, and lashed out at Jacob with the hilt of his sword. Peter mentally flinched at the blow when he saw Jacob spit out blood.

Still, the old man didn't make so much as a grunt of pain. Slowly, he raised his battered face to look up at the king, and the defiance in his eyes took Peter's breath away.

"You," Jacob said, his voice gravelly, "are not my king, Miraz. I look upon you as a wicked man, corrupted by his power. _My_ king is, and always will be, the son of King Caspian."

For a moment, it seemed as if the entire crowd had stopped breathing. Miraz's face had paled at the captive's words.

"Very well, then," said the king, in a voice of steel. He gave a curt nod to one of his guard. The guard left returned quickly, with a pair of shears in hand.

Miraz sniffed disdainfully and glared down at Jacob. "You were once a member of my court, Erimon. I have always respected you. I will offer you this one chance: tell me who else was involved in your scheme, and I will make your end quick and painless."

"No one else was involved," Jacob said immediately, his head bowed. His voice was so calm, so steady.

"You take me for a fool?" Miraz said coldly. "No one could have engineered such a plot by himself. I ask you again, _who else was involved_? Which one of my trusted courtiers helped you? How many vipers am I breeding in my own home?"

When Jacob failed to answer, Miraz signaled the guard with the shears. The guard took one of the old man's fingers, placed it between the crossed blades, and, with a wrench and a twist, cut the digit from the hand. The prisoner let out a cry of agony as red dripped from his hand.

Peter cried out in pure horror, unable to avert his eyes. He felt Gilbert trembling in his arms, and pressed the boy's head harder against his own chest. "Don't look!" he said harshly, tears clotting his voice.

"Who was it?" the king demanded angrily at the pain-wracked prisoner. "Who helped you?"

No answer.

Miraz nodded at the guard, and there was another sound of bone being crushed, another finger being removed, and another scream.

There were gasps of shock and disgust from the crowd. Peter had fallen to his knees, cradling the trembling boy in his arms. His teeth were chattering and hot tears were dripping down his chin.

"Who was it?!" roared the king. Another sickening noise as the shears did their awful job. Another scream.

Gilbert was sobbing into Peter's shirt. Peter clapped his hands over the younger boy's ears while fighting not to vomit as he watched Jacob, the man he'd grown to care for like a second father, be taken apart piece by piece.

After a quarter of an hour, Jacob was barely upright, bent over himself and panting raggedly. There was a pool of blood staining the courtyard stones. If not for the two Telmarine guards holding him up by his now-useless arms, the old man would have fallen on his face.

Miraz was pacing back and forth, impatient as always. "Tell me who worked with you, old man!" he demanded, and gave Jacob a kick to the head.

"Your father," gasped the old man, pale from blood loss, "would have been ashamed of you." Jacob pulled himself up far enough to spit blood into Miraz's face.

Peter saw Miraz raise his sword. He saw the king's face turn almost black with rage. Then, as if time had slowed, Peter saw the sword drive through Jacob's neck with terrifying clarity.

A scream was building up in his chest, but all that Peter could release was a loud, gasping breath. He couldn't breathe, and all he could hear was the gurgling groan that came from Jacob's mouth as the old man died before his eyes. Gilbert was screaming and thrashing, and Peter no longer had the strength to hold on to the terrified boy.

His vision became blurred with tears, and all he saw was a haze of red and black, the horrible redness of the blood and Jacob's dead black eyes. He crumpled to the ground, unable to move in his grief.

…………………………………

When Miraz came for him that night, Peter shrank from his touch. He could not bear to let those hands on him, the hands of a murderer.

"I know you were there today," Miraz said, and Peter could smell the wine on the king's breath. "I know you saw me kill the old slave. I'm glad you saw. It was justice, boy, and nothing else."

The king reached for him again, and Peter still shrank away.

"You are a monster," Peter hissed, his back pressed to the wall.

"A monster?" said Miraz, his voice inquisitive. He advanced on Peter, who closed his eyes and turned his head away. "Not a monster, youngling. Just a man, a father who wants his own son to be born into a safe household." He cupped a pale cheek with his hand.

"Don't touch me!" Peter cried out, his whole body trembling with revulsion.

Miraz's face, flushed with drink, turned even redder with anger. He grabbed the front of Peter's shirt in tight fists.

"I can show you just how much of a monster I can be," Miraz growled. "Would you want to see your dark-haired sister be the one kneeling in the courtyard tomorrow?"

"No!" Peter gasped, icy horror coursing through him. "Not Susan!"

Miraz chuckled lowly at the fear in the blue eyes. Such a dazzling blue. Such a lovely fear.

'Then take your clothes off, boy, and get on the bed."

…………………………….

Miraz did not visit him the next night, nor the night after that, for which Peter was grateful. Jacob's death lingered in his heart, like a festering wound. He saw the man's last moments behind his eyelids, every time he closed his eyes. The fact that he slept – willingly! – with Jacob's murderer haunted his dreams. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the slimy feeling of Miraz's hands would not leave his skin, and in his suffering mind, Peter imagined that Jacob's blood was now smeared on him as well.

What was left for him now, but the life of his sister? And perhaps, the hope that Caspian would come back for him.

"Caspian…" Peter whispered, as he lay in bed, as if his lover's name was a prayer. He held the ring, small and cool, in his hand. "For as long as the stars do brightly glow, guiding us through the night. Oh, Caspian… Do you still love me?"

His lover's name brought him no comfort. With a sigh of defeat, Peter realized that he could barely remember what the prince's warm caresses felt like. Memories of loving smiles and gentle hands were fading away into gray shadows, overcome by the horrors that were so near.

A flash of light caught Peter's eye, and he tucked the ring back under the pillow. There were fireworks going off, right outside his window. Gathering the sheets about him to keep warm, Peter got out of bed to look. He saw throngs of people gathered outside, and they were cheering.

"A son! A son!" someone was calling. "The Queen has given birth to a son!"

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Notes: sorry this chapter's so short! I'm kinda suffering from writer's block, blech. please feedback and lemme know wat u think! and thanks to evryone who's reading this!!


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Chapter 14

"Whoa, Destrier! Easy, eeeeasy…"

The prince ran his hand soothingly along the stallion's neck, making comforting noises while trying desperately to stay seated. The horse had reared, letting out a high-pitched cry, and almost knocked Caspian off.

Another gully had appeared in front of them, and it was deep and long. As he tried to get his horse under control, the prince let out a frustrated sigh that was carried away by the howling wind.

The prince and his small entourage had been riding for days. The North Frontage was an unforgiving place, almost a vast, frozen wasteland. There were hardly any foliage, and almost no sign of beast or bird. Long, deep gullies and icy rivers had to be traversed almost daily. Destrier was skittish in this harsh, foreign place.

Even in exile, Caspian counted each day, each hour that he had been away from Peter. Distance and time could not diminish the dreams of wheat-colored hair and eyes the color of the sky. The aching cold and bone-chilling winds, as he traveled the Wild Lands of the North, were not enough to extinguish the flame in his heart.

Dr. Cornelius, unfortunately, was not as hardy as the young prince. The prince's elderly tutor was often fatigued and weakened, unused to traveling in such harsh conditions. With the approaching winter, Cornelius was often seen coughing into a handkerchief. Often, Caspian would lay his own blankets over his tutor at night, when he heard the elderly man shivering.

"Thank you for coming with me," he had said to Dr. Cornelius when they first set out.

Cornelius had merely smiled at him, eyes twinkling under the glass spectacles.

"I would follow you to the ends of the world, my prince," he had said, and gratitude burned in Caspian's heart.

The gully was crossed, with difficulty. After a few more hours of travel, night began to fall, and the prince called his party to a stop. He helped Dr. Cornelius dismount, and let his tutor rest on a large rock to catch his breath.

The two simpering guards, who were more his jailers than his protectors, set up camp while Caspian went off to find firewood, much to their protests that _no, it simply isn't a prince's place to collect firewood_.

The Wild Lands of the North was a desolate place, and Caspian had to make do with whatever sticks he could find on the ground. He stopped to rest on a rock, kicking at the dirt in frustration. The barren land around him stretched out for miles, and the emptiness of it made him feel so lonely. He had sworn to Peter that he would return for him. How long would he be forced to wander before he could go home? He sighed, and let his chin droop to his breast.

The cawing of a crow nearly startled him out of his skin. The black bird had swooped down quite suddenly and landed right next to him. It stared at him with its beady black eyes, and Caspian found himself rather unsettled.

The bird tilted its head to the side, as if inquisitive, and it croaked out, "_Man_."

At first, Caspian thought he was just imagining things, and he paid no more attention to the bird. He stood up and started to walk away, intent on finding more wood. But, the crow hopped after him, fluttering its black wings and bumping into his ankles. Then, it croaked, no _spoke,_ again, clear as day, "_Man!"_

Caspian stopped in his tracks and stared down at it, open-mouthed. _A talking bird?_

"_Son of Adam_," cawed the crow, looking intently at the prince.

"You…you can speak?" Caspian gasped, and he dropped the bundle of sticks in surprise.

The crow lifted a wing, as if in a gesture of "hello."

"_Aye,_" it croaked, and actually _winked_ at the prince.

Caspian found himself grinning madly in excitement, despite his earlier melancholy. All the stories he'd read as a child, all the Narnian tales that Dr. Cornelius had told him, they were all true! There was a talking bird, right in front of him!

The prince jumped back with a shout when an arrow flew out of nowhere and struck the crow in the heart. His hand went to his weapon and Caspian whirled around to see who the assailant was. He was surprised to see one of his guards standing there, crossbow in hand.

"What did you do that for?" the prince demanded angrily. "That was a talking bird! It could speak, and you killed it!"

The man was grim-faced as he lowered the crossbow. The soldier was looking at the prince intently, lips pressed into a thin line.

"There are no such things," the guard spoke slowly and seriously, "as talking animals."

"But it spoke!" Caspian insisted, confused. "You must have heard it!"

The guard walked over to the carcass and prodded it with his foot, to make sure the crow was really dead.

"Your majesty must have been imagining," the guard said, and he picked up the bird to bring back to camp, walking past the shocked prince.

Caspian thought he would be sick.

……………………………………………………

………………………………………………..

A rather impromptu party was being held in the king's hall. Telmarine nobles were milling about the room, laughing and celebrating the birth of the new Crown Prince. Dark Telmarine clothing had been discarded in favor of garishly bright robes. The king's wine flowed freely, and the drunken shouts of praise were loud and raucous.

Peter stood by the king's side, silent and pale. The noise was giving him a headache, and he did not feel much like celebrating. He was acting as cupbearer for the king, and he held a cup full of the red liquid. The smell of it was making him dizzy.

Miraz was drunk, or very nearly drunk. He was swaying slightly on his feet, and his smiling face was flushed as he stood at the front of the room, arms raised to give a speech.

"The heavens have blessed us!" the king shouted merrily, and the people cheered. "I have a son, and he will make me a strong heir!"

Amidst the shouts of happiness, Peter looked at the king in slight bewilderment. He had never seen Miraz like this before, full of jollity. The king had always seemed in control of himself, but now, Miraz seemed rather… unhinged.

"Come, where is my cup?" the king called, turning to Peter. The boy obediently brought the goblet over, but winced when the king rudely took his chin in a ringed hand.

"Why so gloomy?" the king slurred, grinning at Peter. "This is a night for rejoicing!"

The king kissed Peter sloppily on the mouth, and the boy moaned in disgust. He wriggled away, face red with humiliation.

"Don't be shy, my lovely paramour," said the king, leering. He grabbed for Peter again, but the boy slid out of the king's grasp. The king, drunkenly tripping over himself, nearly fell trying to grab at Peter.

Angry, he slapped Peter and the boy dropped the cup, spilling the wine everywhere. The room hushed, as red wine splashed and stained the king's robes. The boy gasped and backed away, frightened as the king glared at him furiously.

"Your majesty!" called the general, immediately stepping forward to put a supporting arm around the tipsy king. "Another toast is in order, perhaps? To our new prince!"

"Yes, yes," Miraz murmured distractedly, and one of the servants brought over another cup of wine. As the king wrapped his hands around the goblet and drank deeply, Glozelle surreptitiously signaled for Peter to leave. Gratefully, Peter hurried out of the room, pushing past the throng of people. As soon as he left the stifling place, he broke into a run, hand over his mouth so as not to throw up.

………………………………..

………………………………

Ten days after they first set out to the North, Caspian's party was joined by five more of Miraz's solders who had ridden out on the king's command. When the prince questioned them, they said that the king had sent them for extra protection. Cornelius knew better. The Telmarine soldiers were too well-armed to be simply joining a prince on a pilgrimage.

That night, as Caspian slept under his thin blankets, he was awakened by a hand on his mouth. The prince started, but relaxed when he saw that it was his old tutor. With a finger to his lips, Cornelius silently led the prince away from the camp.

"Professor, what is going on?" whispered Caspian, blinking blearily in the dark.

"You must fly, my prince!" said Cornelius, and Caspian could see the lines of anxiety in his tutor's pale face. "You are in grave danger. I have overheard them talking. Back at the castle, the queen has given birth to a _son_."

"But why should I be in danger?" said Caspian, bewildered.

"Don't you see?" said Cornelius. "These men were not hired by Miraz to protect you. They are here to assassinate you! Now that the king has an heir of his own, he wishes to kill you so his own son can be king after him."

"_What_?" Caspian gasped. He almost burst out in hysterical laughter. "Surely you don't mean that my own uncle would have me killed?"

Dr. Cornelius merely looked at him very sternly, and Caspian felt dread growing in his heart. A sweat broke out on the prince's forehead and he felt faint as he realized the truth of Cornelius' words.

"We must be quick," said Cornelius. "The sleep potion I have mixed into their food will be wearing off soon, and then they will come for you. Come, my prince, your horse is already saddled. Have you your sword and dagger?"

"Yes," said Caspian, his voice strained. With his tutor leading him by the arm, they prince hurried over to where Destrier stood waiting. Caspian quickly mounted.

"You must come with me," Caspian whispered frantically, when he saw that Cornelius had not mounted his own horse. "They will kill you if they find that you helped me!"

"No, my dear prince," said Cornelius sadly. "This is one journey that I cannot make with you. It would be faster if you go alone, and I cannot afford to slow you down."

"But what will you do when they find out I am gone?"

"Worry about yourself, my prince. Now go! You must go, before they wake!"

Destrier was shifting uncomfortably under him, obviously nervous, but Caspian kept a tight hold on the reins.

"Where shall I run to, Professor?" he asked anxiously. "Where can I go?"

"You must head west," said Cornelius, putting a comforting hand on Caspian's arm. "The Telmarines are your enemy now, so you must find sanctuary with the Narnians. Head for the woods, and if luck is with you, you will find the Narnian Resistance and they will shelter you."

Shakily, Caspian nodded. Too frightened and dazed to ask questions, he bid Cornelius goodbye and spurred his horse.

Destrier carried him away from the camp, just as Caspian heard the men begin to stir. With his heart pounding in his ears, Caspian rode hard and fast.

After awhile, he heard shouts behind him, and many horses gaining on him. Crying out, he urged Destrier to go faster. The prince chanced a peek over his shoulder, and saw Miraz's five soldiers on their stallions, swords and crossbows out.

Setting his jaw, Caspian gripped the horse tighter with his knees and they sped through the night. Blinded by his fear, the prince lost track of where he was going. The wind was gusting mercilessly in his face, and he could barely see in front of him.

There was a hissing sound to his left. One of their arrows pierced his arm and he cried out in pain. His head swam and he fought not to retch as he snapped it off with his free hand. He almost fell off, but adrenaline kept him alert and strong. He could feel the blood running down to his elbow, and the dull pain nearly made him swoon. He pulled the horse to the right, hoping to shake his enemies off.

Destrier's thundering hooves brought him to a river. Without second thoughts, Caspian plunged in. The icy water almost took Caspian's breath away, and he barely managed to hold on to the horse's neck as they desperately made their way across.

Somehow, they made it to the other side. Panting and dripping wet, Caspian drove the horse forwards up the river bank. Without looking back to see if the soldiers still followed, they rode on. Vaguely, Caspian noted that they were tearing through a forest, the tree branches whipping out to scratch at his face. Eyes wide with fear, he barely managed to steer his horse past the trees as they ran at neck-breaking speed.

It was dawn when Destrier finally stopped, unable to go further. The poor beast was sweating and shaking, legs barely able to support him. Caspian wasn't doing better. He was weak from blood-loss, and his body was trembling with exertion.

Thankfully, they had lost the men who were following them, and Caspian allowed himself to rest. After he dismounted, the prince fell to his knees vomited into a nearby bush, cold sweat covering his entire body. He couldn't get up for a long time, just sat on the ground with his head in his hands.

Somehow, he managed to get to his feet after awhile. He tended to Destrier, taking the saddle off of the tired animal. The prince managed to start a fire. Then, gritting his teeth in pain, he pulled out the shaft of the arrow that was embedded in his left arm. With a strip of cloth torn from his shirt, he made a crude bandage for his bleeding wound.

With a hand on his sword hilt, and his back against a tree, Caspian allowed himself to fall into a dreamless sleep.

The pain in his arm woke him up the next morning. Groaning, the prince struggled to his feet and mounted Destrier once more. Fear for his life forced him to keep riding, though his pace was much slower than before. There were no sign of the men that had chased him, but Caspian was too afraid to stop.

The prince was feverish, and the pain in his arm was killing him. By midday, Caspian had slumped forward on his mount, so that he was hugging Destrier's neck. A combination of hunger, fatigue, and blood loss finally overcame him, and the prince lost his grip. He fell sideways and slid off the saddle, hitting the ground with a thump. His faithful horse neighed anxiously at him, but the prince was unconscious.

………………………………………

As night fell, the creature crept from the earth. Her skin, white as chalk, glistened in the pale moonlight as if it was wet and slick. Arms, thin as kindling and bent at the elbows, stretched out before her as if to feel something invisible in the air. Her hands ended in long, curved fingers that were contorted and clawed.

She crawled over the ground, bare feet digging into the earth, nails scratching the dirt, head swaying to and fro, sniffing the air. Matted black hair obscured a pasty white face. Whatever skin that showed under the tattered cloak was a horrible, unnatural white.

A red tongue flickered out of a twisted mouth, licking at dry lips. Like a snake, she tasted the air with her tongue. She smelled blood, warm and rich and _living_. A low rumbling growl came from her throat, and her lips turned upwards into a smile. The creature was hungry.

She could smell the beast, hear its breathing. A large creature, strong and young. A horse!

Like a pale deformed spider, she crept from her hiding place on arms and knees, moving in jerky twitches. Her eyes saw through the dark as if it was day, and she could see her prey. It _was_ a horse, and it was wounded. No wonder the scent of blood was so strong!

Her eyes were glowing red in the dark and her silvery teeth were glinting in the moonlight. She grinned and a pleasurable sigh built in her throat. After living on the blood of whatever birds and rats she could catch, a meal of horse-flesh would be a welcome change.

The beast was tired, she could tell by the way it stood, and how it was swaying. It was nervous; she could smell the sweat on its flanks. It had its nose close to the ground, and it was gently prodding something that lay motionless, nickering softly and anxiously.

She stood up halfway, spreading her arms out and extending her claw-like nails. As quietly as she could, she crept towards the skittish animal, but Destrier was more alert than she thought.

He saw the creature creeping along the ground, sneaky though she was, and reared up, whinnying furiously. The horse darted in front of the motionless figure on the ground, as if to protect it. He bared his teeth at her, and stamped his hooves.

She jumped to her feet in a smooth, gliding motion and hissed at the beast. A red mouth opened to bare razor-sharp fangs. With white arms out-stretched, she leaped at the horse, aiming for the neck.

Destrier, though exhausted, was a war horse, and was ferocious when under attack. Her sharp claws sank into his hide, and he screamed. He reared up again, and his front hooves struck the creature square in the chest.

With an unholy shriek, she fell down, white limbs flailing. She spat and hissed, and her eyes glowed as if on fire. In his fright, the horse turned and fled, leaving behind the burden that he was guarding.

Her shriek quieted and turned into a long, plaintive whine as her prey galloped away in the dark. Panting in small, girlish gasps, the creature brought her fingers to her mouth and she licked off the droplets of horse's blood that she had managed to draw.

With a querulous little sigh, she got to her knees again and crawled forward, sniffing the air. She could still smell the blood, and this time, it wasn't the blood of a horse. She drew the air in through her flared nostrils, her tongue darting out again.

The creature was drawn to the figure that lay sprawled on the ground, the _thing_ that the horse had been trying to protect. What was it? She crawled closer, sniffing, sniffing.

A low moan came from it. "Peter…" it groaned.

Startled, she darted backwards. Her mouth was open in surprise and she clasped her clawed hands to her face. It was a human!

She shuffled closer. The person's cloak was bunched up around its face, so she reached out pulled it off, the movement eliciting another pained moan. The creature giggled shrilly through her teeth. He was so young, and so handsome! She could see that he was wounded.

His arm was bleeding, and the blood was seeping onto the ground, despite the bandage that was wrapped around it. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of blood. She wished to put her mouth upon his injury and give suck, but she restrained herself with a mournful sigh.

His eyelids were fluttering, and she quickly cast a glamour about her, making herself appear as a young maiden.

The Son of Adam was awakening, and she needed to earn his trust before she could bring him to the Stone Table. He would make a fine victim for the White Lady.

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PLEASE REVIEW AND LET ME KNOW WAT U THINK! THANKS FOR READING!!


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 15:

Lord Drinian's hands were shaking as he exited the king's hall. By the looks of the other Telmarine Lords' expressions, he wasn't the only one who was troubled and frightened by Miraz's new decree. There were heads shaking and quieted mumblings between courtiers as they all filed out of the hall, relieved to be dismissed by the king.

Drinian walked off from the main crowd and stopped to lean against a marble column, trying to calm his quickened breathing. Ever since the violent execution of ex-Lord Erimon, Miraz had become even more paranoid and tyrannical than usual, especially with the recent birth of his son.

Drinian could almost feel a pang of sympathy for the king. What father wouldn't want a safety and stability for his child?

Still, when Miraz had decreed that all the people of the court were to stay within the castle walls until the traitor's accomplice was discovered, Drinian found himself breaking out in a cold sweat. They were all to be placed under house arrest until the king had found someone else to behead! What if Drinian was found out?

The young Lord clasped his hands tightly to his belt to quell the visible shakes. He shook his head, trying to clear away the dizziness that had gathered there. How he hated himself for his weakness, that he would feel physically ill at a simple order from the king!

"My Lord Drinian," someone said softly.

The man whirled around, startled and breaking out in another cold sweat. Standing there was the Narnian boy that Drinian recognized to be Miraz's latest paramour. However, this was not the pale, silent creature that acted as a decoration for the king's table. The boy's eyes were bright and his cheeks were rosy with emotion as he stared at Drinian. The man frowned, chagrined that the boy had snuck up on him.

"Jacob," Peter said, without much preamble. "What was he planning to do?" Drinian could see the tense cords in the boy's neck as he spoke.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Drinian brusquely. He brushed Peter off and turned to leave.

"Lord Erimon," Peter called after the retreating man. "That night in the bunkhouse. I wasn't actually asleep, you know." Drinian froze in his tracks, his entire body stiffening.

"What was he planning with you, Lord Drinian?" said Peter again, his voice seeming horrifically loud.

Drinian spun around and grabbed Peter by the arm. Before the boy could blink, Drinian had clapped a rough hand over his mouth and slammed him into the nearest wall. The Telmarine's eyes were blazing furiously.

"Quiet, you fool!" Drinian snapped. "Watch your treacherous tongue, boy, or I shall let the king know that you dare to make such accusations!"

Blue eyes flashing, Peter calmly reached up and pried the man's hand off his mouth.

"The king," Peter said, just as softly as before, "has given me leave to go wherever I please, and speak to whomever I please. I will say what I will. Tell me, my Lord, what were you and Lord Erimon planning?"

Drinian loosened his grip and the boy twisted out of his grasp, rubbing at his shoulder.

"Those are dangerous words to be speaking," Drinian ground out, glaring at Peter. "Especially from a Narnian to a Telmarine Lord."

"Yours were dangerous actions, whatever they were," Peter replied, meeting Drinian's gaze steadily.

Quickly, Drinian glanced around to see if anyone had seen the exchange. Then, he grabbed hold of Peter's arm again and dragged the boy off, walking him briskly down the hall, until they reached a dark corner.

"What are you trying to do?" Drinian hissed at Peter, pressing the boy into a secretive alcove. He towered over the Narnian, but to Peter's credit, he didn't even back down. "Do you want to get us both killed for treason?"

"I have no desire to see you killed, my noble Lord," said Peter, trying to pull out of the man's grip.

"Then what are you playing at?" Drinian demanded. "Do you wish to blackmail me? Do you want money for your silence?"

Peter bristled. Standing up taller, he pressed his face close to Drinian's.

"Erimon was like a father to me," snapped Peter, angry at the man's accusations. "I had to endure watching him die. Have you ever seen a man, helpless and on his knees, be murdered, Lord Drinian?" Whatever Drinian wished to say died on his lips at Peter's words, and the young Lord paled.

"No, I don't want anything from you.," said Peter in a softer voice. "I just want to know what he died for."

Drinian stepped back slightly and studied the boy. He could see the strength behind the fierce, blue eyes, and the hard lines of a clenched jaw. Drinian could see no glint of treachery or greed in Peter's face. He sighed and let go of the boy's arm.

"There are some things you are better off not knowing, child. I will not speak with you," Drinian said wearily, and he turned around and left. Angrily, Peter clenched a fist, knowing that Drinian would not reveal anything.

"I am not a child any longer," Peter called bitterly after him. "Your king has seen to that, my Lord."

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"Who are you?" Caspian asked hoarsely. His tongue felt heavy and sluggish in his mouth. He was lying down on the ground, his cloak gathered around him like a blanket. He tried to reach for his dagger, but his limbs felt like they were made of lead.

"Where am I?"

The flickering light of the campfire threw orange and red streaks across the face of his savior. She was so pale!

His arm throbbed painfully, and Caspian groaned, tossing his head.

"You are safe here, with me," she said as she stooped over where he lay, and Caspian almost cried out in pain at the sound of her voice. It was so piercing, even though she had spoken softly. His ears hurt, and the pounding in his head wasn't helping.

He saw her smile at him, and Caspian shivered at how eerie it looked. She smoothed his sweaty hair back with her hand, and the appendage looked so strange in the firelight. One of her sharp fingernails nicked him on the cheek and he winced.

"Who are you?" he asked again. His vision was starting to swim, and her pale form was blurring before his eyes. Crouched in front of the fire, he thought she resembled some sort of strange creature rather than a maiden.

"Please, tell me. What is your name?" he said, almost desperately as he clung to the strands of consciousness.

"_Desmoda,_" she replied, and it sounded as if she hissed it rather than spoke it. "And I'll take care of you, my handsome, not to worry," she crooned, smiling sweetly down at him. She stroked his cheek with her long-nailed hands.

"I must get to the Narnians…" Caspian said, coughing weakly.

She laughed shrilly. "Of course, my darling," she said. "I will take you to the most loyal Narnians of all."

Her lean, pale face was the last thing Caspian saw before he swooned again.

The creature waited until he fell asleep. Then, with an almost manic giggle, she raised her arms to the sky and stretched out the pale, leathery wings that had been hidden by her cloak. She straddled the prince, and wrapped her contorted legs around the unconscious body, gripping the Son of Adam between her strong thighs.

Then, she took off from the ground and _flew_, carrying the prince through the air like a bat carrying away its prey.

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The days blurred together for Peter. The taint of Jacob's death lingered sorely in his heart, and he could no longer bear to see the bunkhouse again, or seek out Drinian. Instead, he wandered through the halls of Miraz's castle like a ghost, his feet taking him nowhere. He was listless and pale, and his fine clothes hung off his thin frame like oversized rags. His eyes never looked at the cold splendor of Miraz's house, their bright blue now grown into a dead gray.

For every evening, Peter sat at the king's table, enduring the humiliation of the court's scrutinizing eyes and the icy glares of the jealous queen. By night, whenever Miraz felt inclined to visit his room, Peter suffered the pain and further humiliation of the king's love.

"Did he ever kiss you like this?" the king would ask mockingly, as he moved his lips over Peter's trembling body.

"I can't remember," Peter would always whisper, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling.

It had hurt too much to bear, thinking of Caspian, when he was trapped under the dark king's desire. The prince had sworn he would come back, but it hurt so much to hope. Day by day, Peter found it easier to let the memories of sweet kisses and gentle smiles fade away.

So, he pushed all recollection of love, of tenderness, to the back of his suffering mind. And soon, he couldn't remember them at all.

He no longer dreamed of golden lions, swords, or loving princes. Instead, his sleep became a dark, gray world, filled with shadows and the whispers of ghosts.

Peter kept his eyes fixed on his lap as Miraz ran ringed fingers over his shoulder. He sat upon the couch, hands clasped on his knees. Miraz was reclining lazily next to him, and was stroking Peter's arm with a languid hand.

With eyes squeezed shut and knuckles white, Peter wished that Miraz would just hurry up and _get it over with_.

"Anything you want," Miraz murmured against Peter's neck, his breath hot on the boy's skin. "Tell me your desires." The king put his palm over Peter's knee and moved it upwards, caressing the tense thigh.

_When may I see my sister? Please, when my I see my sister?_

_She has been taken to a work camp, near the Western Woods. I promise that she is safe. Do you not trust your king_?

Peter gave a pained gasp when Miraz's bit softly on his earlobe. He tried not to wince when Miraz laid a hand on his chest and flicked open the top buttons of his shirt. Rough fingertips delved inside to lightly brush over smooth skin.

Peter swallowed nervously, and looked into Miraz's face.

"My mother's name is Helen Pevensie," he said quietly, hoping his voice would not crack. "She was taken from home five years ago, by Telmarine soldiers. Please, sire, I entreat you to help me find her, whether she is at a work camp, or here in your house."

Miraz, whose eyes were starting to become hazy with lust, now gazed at Peter in slight annoyance.

"Aren't you too old to be clinging to your mother's apron, boy?" he said, sitting back on the couch cushions, arms across his chest.

"A man is still his mother's son, my Lord," Peter replied, and he hesitantly took Miraz's hand, pressed his lips to the king's ring in a show of submission. "Please, sire? I just want to know if she's alive. Grant me this one thing?"

A thoughtful look came over Miraz's face as he looked into the boy's blue eyes. Almost, but not quite affectionately, the king ran his hand through Peter's golden locks, watched as the pale eyelids slipped closed. He brushed his thumb over a rosy cheek.

"I will see what I can do," Miraz said.

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Susan was talking with Glenstorm when another centaur, Ironhoof, ran urgently up to them.

"A Telmarine has been captured!" he cried, beckoning to them. "We caught him trying to sneak into camp!"

Susan shared a concerned look with Glenstorm, then immediately strapped her sword to her waist and followed Ironhoof.

The centaur and dwarf guards had formed a ring around the man, and they had their weapons trained on him. The Telmarine was pale and frightened, but he made no move to draw his weapons.

The crowd parted to let Susan through, and she looked over the Telmarine coldly. "What is your purpose here?" she demanded. "Are you an assassin or a spy?"

"I came looking for Susan Pevensie," said Rynelf, "the leader of the Resistance."

"I am she," said Susan, surprised when the man dropped to his knees and held out his sword, hilt up.

"Then I come as your prisoner," he said, head lowered humbly. "I offer you my sword."

The Narnians around her laughed in amusement. Susan stalked up and snatched up his sword, then threw it to the ground.

"How kind of you to offer yourself, though you were our prisoner the moment you entered these woods," she snapped. "This army does not need your sword, Telmarine, and this camp does not need another mouth to feed. By your dress, you are no high-ranking noble, so you are useless as a hostage. What is your purpose here?"

Rynelf stood nervously. "I bring information of Miraz's battle plans."

"Speak!" Susan said.

"The Telmarine army plans to take back Beruna," Rynelf said quickly, barely pausing for breath. "Miraz plans to attack at night, by stealth. He will send his bring light infantry from across the River Rush, but he plans to have Lord Sopespian's troops attack at the same time from their stronghold, about two leagues west of here." The Telmarine looked around him pleadingly, hoping the Narnians would heed him.

"And why should we believe your words?" Ironhoof demanded, stamping his front hooves and pointing accusingly at Rynelf. "How do we know that you are not leading us into a trap? How do we know you are not a spy?" The centaur's sentiments were echoed loudly by the others.

"I speak truthfully!" Rynelf cried, holding his hands up, as the Narnians shouted for him to be killed. "I am no spy and I ask for no secrets from you, to betray this army. I only offer information so that you may win the battle!"

Susan stepped forward, blue eyes flashing suspiciously. "And why would a soldier under Miraz's pay suddenly change sides?" she asked.

"Traitors in Miraz's army are no longer a rarity," said Rynelf, turning to her beseechingly. "Discontent grows within the king's own home, and all throughout his lands. Noblemen and civilians alike deem Miraz a madman. He is bloodthirsty, and wages war in times of famine. He would drive his own country to the ground! I would be a fool to follow him any longer."

"And you expect me to believe that you will help us, simply because you are discontent with your king?" said Susan, arms crossed over her chest. "What of the Prince Caspian? Isn't he the rightful heir? How do I know that once we defeat Miraz, another Telmarine tyrant won't take the throne?"

Rynelf chose his next words carefully, nervously looking around at the armed centaurs. "I am loyal to Caspian," he said, "but the Prince has been exiled into the north, and he is powerless now. I have no motives to supplant Miraz with another Telmarine, I only seek to become your ally."

Rynelf saw Susan's eyes, unyielding. He stepped closer to and looked at her pleadingly. "I also bring tidings of your brother," he said softly, and his voice was sorrowful.

Susan went rigid, her hands tensing at her sides. "Gentlemen," she said immediately to those assembled, and her voice shook. "I ask that you leave me with this man. I must speak with him alone."

The centaurs murmured uneasily at her words, still not trusting the Telmarine. Glenstorm stepped up, and his noble face was troubled.

"If you wish to speak with this soldier, than I shall accompany you," he said. "We do not know what his motives are, and should your safety be threatened…"

"Please," said Susan, and Glenstorm could see that her lip was trembling. "I trust him now, Glenstorm. I need to talk to him in private."

When Glenstorm and the rest still made no move to withdraw, Susan hastily took Rynelf's arm and led him off to her tent.

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"Get away from my child!" the queen shrieked from the doorway, and Peter nearly dropped the baby. The infant immediately started wailing in Peter's arms, which agitated Prunaprismia even further.

"Get your filthy hands off him!" she shouted, running up and snatching the baby from him.

"I-I'm sorry!" Peter stammered, trying to placate the hysterical woman as she frantically checked her child for injuries. "He was crying when I passed, and I came in to see if anything was wrong…"

"Nurse!" the queen screamed at the pale woman who was cowering in the corner. "What were you thinking?! Why did you let him into the nursery?!"

"He was only trying to help, your majesty!" gasped the frightened nurse. "I could not get the prince to stop fussing, and the Narnian was passing by. He offered to help, and the prince stopped crying when he picked him up, so I let him-"

The queen reached out and slapped the woman across the face, her nails clawing red marks into the nurse's cheek. The woman cried out in pain and shrank back even further. Peter was shocked at her ferocity.

"Oh, please!" he said, starting forward, palms held out. "It isn't her fault. I was out of line, and I should not have entered the nursery. It was my fault, your majesty!"

Tenderly, the queen lowered the sniffling baby back into the crib. Then, dark eyes ablaze with fury, she ran to her drawer and pulled out a dagger. With the point directed at Peter's startled face, the queen advanced on him, snarling like a tigress.

"Get out," she growled through clenched teeth. "My husband may be enamored with your pretty face, but if I _ever_ see you touching my child again, not even the king can stop me from cutting your eyes out!"

With another stuttered apology and a shaky bow, Peter turned and fled.

That night at the evening meal, Peter was too frightened to look at Prunaprismia where she sat next to the king. He could feel her cold glare directed at him, despite the fact that Miraz sat between them.

"You!" she snapped suddenly, and Peter looked up from his plate, dropping his fork. She was glaring at him, her painted mouth set in a tight line. "You have no right to sit at my table. You are nothing but a common peasant, and you disgrace me with your presence. Get yourself to the kitchens where you belong."

"Yes, your majesty," Peter said quickly, and he stood, all too eager to be out of the hall and away from her ire.

"Sit," Miraz intoned loudly, and Peter froze, mid-step. He looked over at Miraz, who had not even paused in cutting the meat on his plate. Prunaprismia was fuming and glaring at her husband, but she didn't dare to speak. Peter gulped, not knowing what to do.

"Are you deaf?" Miraz snapped, after a moment of silence. "I told you to sit."

"P-perhaps I should go, if I displease her majesty so," Peter stammered, edging away from the table.

"Sit down!" Miraz shouted, pounding the table with his fist, which caused the queen to jump slightly. The cutlery rattled loudly in the hushed room.

Gingerly, Peter lowered himself into his seat again. He glanced worriedly between the king and the queen, hoping he wouldn't end up being executed because of a spat.

"It is not her majesty's place to make demands at _my_ table," said the king calmly. He sipped at his goblet as if nothing had happened, blatantly ignoring his queen.

With an angry sniff, Prunaprismia threw her spoon down to the floor, sending a maid scrambling to pick it up.

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Caspian dreamt that he was flying through the air. The wind was blowing his hair back from his face, and his cheeks were cold. He dreamt that he was being carried in the claws of a monster, a horrid, pale creature that grinned with razor-sharp teeth. He felt so cold and couldn't stop himself from trembling. Why did it feel so real?

Every time, just as he thought he would open his eyes and see himself among the clouds, with the ground far below him, he would wake up to find himself lying on the ground with a mild headache.

Caspian blinked his sore eyes and looked up into the night sky. _Night again_. With an uneasy twinge in his stomach, he realized that he had not seen daylight for at least three days.

He was lying on a blanket, and his cloak was wrapped around him again, but he was stiff and cold. Why was his hair wet? He was so dizzy…

With great effort, he turned his head to the left and saw Desmoda, his savior, crouched next to the orange campfire. She was heating a bowl of something over the flame. She turned her face to look at him, and smiled a greeting. Caspian shivered at how her teeth glinted in the low light.

She came over, and gently tilted his head up. She fed him the contents of the bowl, just as she had for the three past nights. Gratefully, Caspian drank the broth, his lips eagerly sucking in the sweet brew.

When she had first given it to him, it was bitter on his tongue, and he spat it out. However, it had grown sweeter and milder as he drank more. It was the only sustenance he had been given for three days, but he always felt sated and so sleepy afterwards.

Caspian had yet to see Desmoda eat or drink anything. He was never able to stay awake long enough to see her do more than heat up the brew and feed it to him. He would only be able to sit up for awhile, and maybe take a short walk before falling back asleep.

She had cleaned and sewed up his wound, and replaced the bandage. His arm was healing nicely. Yet, he thought he must still be feeling the effects of his injury, since his head always felt so heavy, and he could hardly keep his eyes open. Why was he so tired…?

A small part of his mind that had remained un-addled by her potion was screaming out in a panic. _It felt so wrong! What manner of creature was this woman? She had no horse, so how had they been traveling, and why only by night? _

Desmoda watched as his eyes slipped shut again. "Sleep, my handsome," she whispered in her creaky voice, her thin lips twisted into a smile. She giggled, her voice manic and high-pitched. As the prince slept on, she crept over his prone body and lasciviously pressed herself to him. She licked at his ear with her red tongue, ran her clawed fingers through his dark hair.

She thought of how close they were to the Stone Table, and she smiled. Perhaps, when the White Lady is brought back to life by the Son of Adam's blood, She would allow Desmoda to have him for a husband.

When the moon rose, clear and bright in the cold night sky, she doused the fire. She once again flew through the air with the unconscious prince clutched in her strong legs.

It was dawn when she reached the Lion's Tomb. It was a hive-shaped fortress of rock and mud, built around the ancient Stone Table.

As she sank slowly to the ground, tired from a night of travel, she opened her mouth and gave a piercing call that echoed shrilly throughout the place. Gently, she laid the prince on a patch of soft grass outside the post and lintel doorway.

After about a minute, all manner of dark and terrible creatures began to emerge, some from inside the Tomb, some from the surrounding trees, and some from the sky. There were wraiths, ghouls, goblins, hags, and vampires, like Desmoda herself. These were creatures from a time that was long forgotten, ancient and evil people who had hid themselves from the world.

Long have they haunted this ancient place, the Lion's Tomb, where no Narnian or Telmarine had visited in years. The dark creatures loved and protected this place, for it housed the Stone Table, which was where the White Witch had her greatest moment of triumph. They loved and worshipped her spirit, and this place was sacred to them.

A large werewolf, cloaked and snarling, stepped forward from the depths of the Tomb.

"Why have you disturbed us, blood-sucker?" he growled, towering menacingly over Desmoda, who stooped over Caspian's unconscious body.

She cowered, and whined piteously, covering her head with her pale arms. Nervously, she giggled again.

"I have brought you a Son of Adam," she said, her voice hissing through her sharp teeth.

"Ahh, then you have done well, sister," said the werewolf, and he smiled. "Long have we waited for this moment. Bring him inside, and light the blue fire. Let the circle be drawn. The White Lady awaits."

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Notes: Thanks so much for reading! Please, please comment and let me know what you think! Also, I'm really sorry, but I won't be able to update as fequently, now that my classes have started. I will try to get at least one chapter out each weak, but I don't know for sure. Thanks again for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 16

During the reign of Caspian VIII, there had been an uprising. The Telmarine peasantry, along with a small group of Narnian dissenters, had led a revolt against the king. A new philosophy had been built among the young females that were tired of the king's tyranny. Just as they rebelled against Caspian's heavy taxes and unfair laws, they also rebelled against traditional gender roles.

As the country was shaken by riots and attacks, young Telmarine women, revolutionaries, had created the idea of the "Iron Woman," a woman who was the equal of any man.

A faction of young peasant girls, barely out of their teens, had willingly gone to great lengths to physically exert their own bodies, jumping into frozen lakes in the midst of winter or lifting heavy iron weights that were still hot from the oven, to create the political symbol of the "Iron Woman."

Physical exertion became a wide-spread craze of self abuse, and the influence bled into the households of Telmarine nobles. Young noblewomen turned against their fathers and brothers. When the situation further deteriorated into many women becoming infertile by such acts, King Caspian had put a bloody end to the short rebellion.

Rynelf had been young enough to remember the tyrannical laws that came in the aftermath, laws that made Telmarine women little better than possessions for their men.

However, Rynelf was sure, if any woman could come close to becoming the icon of the "Iron Woman," it would be Susan Pevensie. Never had he seen a girl so young act so strong and poised as she did, as they stood in her private tent.

"What do you mean," she said, her eyes hard and cold, "that my brother is in danger?" Her voice was like steel.

Though he was at least a head taller than her, and much broader, the man felt himself become nervous in her presence. Lowering his eyes, he told her about Peter, all that had transpired before he left Miraz's castle.

"I am afraid that now, with Prince Caspian in exile in the North, your brother no longer has any protection from the king," Rynelf said. "Miraz is an evil man, and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants."

There was an almost imperceptible tightening of her facial muscles, a slight widening of her blue eyes. Her fist clenched, but that was all the reaction she showed. Yet, the air between them had grown impossibly tense.

"And you," Susan said, her lip quirking into a humorless smile, "knew this and still left him alone? How brave of you."

"There was nothing I could do!" Rynelf said defensively. "He bade me leave, because he knew I had no power to stand against the king's men!"

Susan snorted slightly, and turned her back on him, walking over to a nearby table to lean against it with both hands.

"My Lady, we must act quickly against Miraz, or I fear Peter will suffer. We cannot leave him to the king's mercies," Rynelf said anxiously. She was silent for awhile, then gave a quiet sigh. Her head bowed low, and Rynelf could see the tiniest of tremors shake her shoulders.

"I remember when we were children," she said softly. Her voice was steady, but it was husky with emotion. "Peter would always protect me from the bigger boys. They used to chase me, you know. Beastly little creatures."

She chuckled sadly, and shook her head. "They used to pull my hair, and try to throw mud on my dress. But I was never frightened for very long, because I knew my brother would come storming out of the house, looking so very fierce, and chase _them _off, even though they were his friends.

And now? Now they fight for me, and they follow my orders in battle. I could tell them to kill, and they would die trying. You see, we cannot afford to be children in times of war."

She straightened and turned to look at Rynelf, and the ex-Telmarine soldier could see how tightly her jaw was set.

"He is eighteen years old," she said. "I am sure that he is strong enough to fend for himself."

"But surely you cannot be suggesting that we leave him to his fate!" Rynelf cried disbelievingly. "He is your brother!"

"I love my brother, and don't you _dare_ imply otherwise!" Susan snapped, stepping aggressively up to Rynelf and pointing a finger at his chest. "But these are _not_ times to be making rash decisions, sir. If we are to help Peter, then we must start by winning the next battle. We need strategy, not useless hastiness! We cannot let emotions cloud our judgment, do you understand?"

Startled by her anger, Rynelf nodded in acquiescence.

"I will do whatever I can to help," Rynelf said quickly. "I will offer you my sword in battle."

Susan studied Rynelf for a moment, then drew back. Her expression softened. "It is not your sword that I need, Rynelf," she said. "I need you to be a spy. To the Telmarines, you are still their loyal soldier. I will need you to ride to the encampment, and find out all you know about Miraz's battle plans. The information will be invaluable to our cause."

She put a hand on his shoulder. "I know that I ask a dangerous task of you. You have risked your life by coming here. Will you risk it again, to help me?"

Rynelf looked into Susan's eyes, blue like Peter's. He took her hand from his shoulder, and clasped it.

"Done, my Lady," he said without hesitation. "I will leave tonight." He kissed her hand.

Susan felt herself jump slightly at the unexpected contact. She suddenly felt strangely uncomfortable, and she pulled her hand back, flushing.

"Thank you," she said awkwardly.

Just then the tent flap was opened, and Glenstorm the centaur walked in. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, giving Rynelf a suspicious glance before turning to Susan. "Our scouts have brought news, Lady. There has been an unsettling amount of activity near Aslan's How. There were many sightings of evil creatures, and we fear that the White Witch's followers have kidnapped another victim."

"We must hurry then," she said urgently. "Go gather a group of soldiers and we will march to the How."

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It was a rhythmic pounding noise that woke the prince. Caspian opened his eyes to the dull orange gleam of torchlight. He could see the silhouettes of many people gathered around him, and he groaned as his head swam.

He tried to move his head, but scraped his cheek on rough stone. Clenching his teeth to stave off the nausea in his stomach, Caspian raised his head. He was on his knees, and his torso was slumped over on some sort of stone slab. His arms were tied tightly behind his back with coarse ropes, and his collar had been pushed down, exposing his throat.

"Where am I?" he spoke hoarsely. The chanting and pounding grew louder, and there were raucous cheers and howls, some of them sounding quite inhuman.

His eyesight cleared, and the prince looked about him in shock. Terrifying creatures surrounded where he knelt. They were the stuff of his nightmares, pale wraiths, flesh-eating ghouls that stared at him hungrily, hags with saliva dripping from their hooked beaks, bat-like demons that bared their fangs, and monstrous furred beasts with yellow teeth. All the horror stories that Dr. Cornelius ever told him, about the dark followers of the White Witch, about the evil times in Narnia, were _there_, right before him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Desmoda among her fellow vampires, and she was shrieking with laughter, pointing a clawed finger at him delightfully.

Caspian trembled and had to fight not to scream.

"He is awake!" a goblin screeched, jumping up and down. "Quick, prepare the victim!"

Someone stepped behind him and grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head backwards so quickly that he lost his breath. A clawed and furred hand reached around his chest and held a bowl underneath his collarbone, right below his bared throat.

Being jerked upright, he could see the twisted features and bodies of the evil beings were all too clearly, and he grew white with terror.

Before him, on the opposite side of the Stone Table, there stood an ancient post and lintel construction, made of rock. It looked like a doorway, but also resembled some sort of hideous altar.

"Come, sister," growled the beast that was holding him. "You have brought the Son of Adam here, so you may have the honor."

Desmoda's pale face lit up with glee, and she squealed in delight as she crept forward. She picked up a black dagger that was laying on the Stone Table and leered into Caspian's face.

"My handsome," she crooned seductively at him, and brought the dagger up to rest against his throat. The blade was pressed to his skin, and nicked a red line across his throat.

With a shiver of dread, Caspian realized what the bowl was for. _To catch his blood, once his throat was slit._

As he struggled in mindless fear, his frantic movements causing the dagger to give him many shallow cuts, the chanting grew louder and louder, as if the Narnians were trying to summon up the dead.

An ancient-looking hag, her skin wrinkled and brown, stepped in front of the stone doorway. She was muttering an incantation, and though Caspian could not understand the words, he could feel the evil roll off her tongue like liquid poison. He cried out, the hag's very voice making his ears ring with pain.

As Desmoda cackled and hissed next to him, he saw the hag draw something from her sleeve. It was a silvery scepter of some sort, and it sparkled as if it was made of ice.

Ending her chant with a shrill cry, the hag slammed the point of the scepter into the base of the doorway. Immediately, a bluish sheet of ice began to grow, creeping up to fill the stone frame.

The room slowly quieted until the only sound was Caspian's heavy breathing. The prince could feel the temperature dropping. The creatures were staring in awe and wonder at the sheet of ice, and Caspian's dread grew.

Something was taking shape in the ice, something vaguely humanlike. Before his eyes, the silhouette of a white-skinned woman appeared. She was beautiful, and Caspian, terrified though he was, found himself unable to take his eyes off of her. As she grew more and more solid, he forgot his fear and became transfixed by her beauty.

Inexplicably, he suddenly desired her, wished to bury himself into her cold, cold arms.

"One drop of Adam's blood," she said, and the room was filled with the music of her voice, "and I will be free. Then, I shall be yours, my prince, my king."

He was enraptured by her glittering blue eyes, staring straight into his soul and delving into all his secrets. And, as if she had utter control of his mind, he wanted to give her his blood, wanted to spill it, drench the Stone Table with it. The werewolf was no longer holding him, as he had stopped struggling. If his arms had not been bound, he would have grabbed the knife from Desmoda and plunged it into his own heart.

It was growing so cold that his breath was coming out in white puffs, but he barely felt it. It was as if frost was slowly growing over his heart.

Caspian leaned his head forward, so that the knife could sink in…

There was a sudden _twang_ and an arrow flew threw the air, piercing the wall of ice with a noise that sounded like metal tearing. With an unholy shriek, the witch shattered into a hundred pieces.

The prince could not stop an anguished howl from leaving his lips as the beautiful woman disappeared. The all-too-sudden withdrawal of her spell painfully knocked the breath from him and the prince swooned, falling forwards onto the Stone Table.

From behind and around him, the dark creatures clamored in dismay as a much different group of Narnians stormed into the How, shouting and brandishing their weapons. Most of the wraiths and ghouls shrieked and fled, but some turned to fight. However, they were no match for the group of fauns, centaurs, and men, and the evil creatures were quickly defeated.

The chamber was horribly silent after the vermin had been killed, and the stench of the ritual lingered. The Narnians were all too eager to leave the place.

"Quickly, untie him and we will bring him with us," said Susan shakily, walking around to collect whatever arrows were salvageable, trying not to look at the deformed carcasses.

One of the men went over to help Caspian, but drew back in surprise when he saw olive-colored skin and sharp features.

"He is a Telmarine!" the man exclaimed.

"What?" Susan gasped. "A Telmarine? Here? That is impossible! Those men never venture so far into the wild."

With a grave look on her face, she walked over to the unconscious prince. Rather un-gently, she pulled Caspian's hair back from his face, frowning.

With a small sigh, she let go and watched Caspian's head fall back down with a thump.

"They are slaughtering our people," she mused bitterly, "and we have just saved one of theirs. Let us go. Leave the Telmarine for the wild beasts." Her soldier grinned, seeming cheerful at her order.

With a last disdainful glance at the unconscious prince, Susan strapped on her bow and turned to leave. Yet, just as she reached the threshold of the How, either pity or something else changed her mind.

"Wait," she called flatly, and turned to look back at the prince, who was slumped over the Table, bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Walking back over to him, she reached down and flicked some dark curls out of the slack face. Not bothering to be careful with her nails, she prodded at his cheek.

"He is well-groomed," she said. "His skin is smooth, and bears no scars." Susan looked up at the expectant Narnians. "He may be someone of high breeding. We'll take him with us, and see if he'll make a better hostage than the one we have now."

……………………………………….

…………………………………………

There were shuffling noises somewhere near him. Caspian's head was throbbing, and his eyes were closed. He could tell that he was lying down on something soft, and there was a blanket over him. He felt warm.

There were two people talking in low voices, and someone was dabbing at a cut on his forehead with a cloth. Carefully, the prince opened his eyes just a fraction of an inch. What he saw nearly made him cry out in shocked dismay.

There was an enormous badger leaning over him, tending to his wound. A half-goat half-man was standing at his bedside. Narnians!

In his confused state, the prince thought he had been kidnapped again. Quickly and subtly, he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a tent of some sort, and he was lying on a cot. There was a low wooden table nearby, and it held several jars of medicine. The tent opening did not seem to be guarded, and Caspian knew that if he overcame the badger, he would be able to escape.

He waited until the faun left. Just as the badger turned to a nearby table to retrieve something, the prince leapt into action. Flinging the covers off, he jumped to his feet. The badger's head had half turned when Caspian swung his fist at the animal, knocking it to the floor.

As the animal grunted in indignity, Caspian, without bothering to put his boots back on, bolted for the tent opening.

He hadn't noticed the other occupant of the tent, and barely saw her melt out of the shadows. Almost ghost-like, the dark-haired woman agilely stepped right in front of him and landed a terrific blow to his solar plexus, using the prince's own momentum to deal more force.

Caspian doubled over, his breath escaping his lungs in a loud _whoosh_. Without even pausing in her movements, Susan grabbed Caspian's sword arm as he keeled over, and applied brutal pressure with her thumbs to two spots on his inner arm. Caspian groaned as his strong arm went numb.

As if she was moving through water, Susan smoothly slid behind him, bringing his limp arm to bend painfully around his back. Caspian could feel her foot sliding around his ankle, about to trip him and bring him to his knees.

The prince, however, had been trained by the best Telmarine fighters Miraz could afford, and he was not so easily subdued. Thinking quickly, he lifted his heel and brought it down heavily on the side of her foot, knocking her off-balance. Expertly, he twisted out of her grip, and using her tight grasp on his own arm, he spun her around so that he had her arm pinned behind her.

With a shove, he wrestled her onto the table and pinned her face-down onto its surface. She turned her head to snarl at him, her angry blue eyes flashing.

"Calm yourself," Caspian said, panting. "I will not strike a lady."

With an even more furious growl, Susan groped for the oil lamp with her free hand. Grabbing it, she threw it backwards, right into her captor's face. Caspian fell back with a scream.

As his hold on her loosened, Susan drove her elbow into Caspian's stomach, causing him to stumble back.

As he floundered, dazed, Susan spun around and grabbed his shoulders with almost superhuman strength. With a roar, she half flung him, half threw him, head-first into the table.

The wood splintered under the impact, and Caspian crashed to the ground, unconscious.

Panting, cheeks red with exertion, Susan flung sweaty hair out of her face. With an angry little shriek, she ran over and gave the still body a spiteful kick.

The faun, who had left earlier, ran into the tent with a look of alarm. "Are you alright?" he gasped, looking at the unconscious prince, slumped over the ruins of the table, and Susan's disheveled state.

"See to Trufflehunter," Susan said, a bit shortly, and the faun ran over to the badger. "Then bring this Telmarine pig over to the other hostage, and bind him!"

………………………………………………..

…………………………………………………

The king was holding yet another celebration in honor of his newborn son. The hall was filled with Telmarine nobles who dutifully drank and cheered. Decorum obligated Peter to attend, but this time, he was wise enough to stay as far away as possible from the king.

As soon as he perceived he could, Peter snuck outside. With arms wrapped around himself to ward off the cold, the boy wandered through the gardens. He could hear the loud noises of the party from inside, and he walked further off, not caring that it was dark and he was alone.

He felt so lonesome. He didn't know how long he walked aimlessly, but when the moon rose high in the sky, Peter shivered and decided to head back, hoping the king would already too drunk to pay him a visit.

As he was walking, Peter heard a cry. It was sharp and frightened, and immediately muffled. There were sounds of struggle coming from nearby, mixed with the cries of a girl and the heavy grunting of a man.

He ran towards the noise and came upon a disturbing sight. The king, flushed red with drink, was assaulting one of the Telmarine kitchen girls. Her tears were silvery in the moonlight as she struggled helplessly in his grip. He had a hand buried in her bunched-up skirts, and his other hand was grasping her jaw.

"Do you love your king?" Miraz slurred, nearly toppling over as he struggled with the unwilling girl. "Love me?" His voice was sluggish, as if the king was talking through a mouthful of cotton. "Come… this is a celebration for the new prince! Give me a kiss, you worthless chit!" His fingers dug into the skin on her face as he tried to press his mouth to hers. Peter could see bruises on the slender neck.

"My king!' he called out, running forward before he even knew what he was doing. Just Miraz stumbled drunkenly, and nearly brought the girl down with him, Peter rushed over and put a steadying arm around the man.

"My king, please. Come with me…"

Miraz grunted, tipsy and confused. Shrugging off Peter's arm, the king pushed the squirming girl against a nearby wall and shoved his hand under her skirts and groping at a thigh. She let out a thin wail, and tried to push the man off.

Miraz laughed, lecherously, brokenly, as he pulled at her clothes. "I am your king," he slurred. "Do you not love me?"

"Your majesty!" Peter put his hands on Miraz's shoulders and pulled as hard as he could. The king, drunk as he was, stumbled back into Peter's arms, releasing the girl.

"How…how dare you!" the king growled, flailing his arms and glaring blearily at his assailant. Quickly, hoping to quell the king's anger, Peter grasped the Miraz's red face in his hands and kissed the man deeply. The king tasted of wine, sour and sickly sweet, and Peter closed his eyes as Miraz's arms wrapped around his waist.

"Come, my king," Peter said lowly, swallowing down his revulsion. Miraz moaned drunkenly and dropped his heavy head onto Peter's shoulder. "It is late, and we should go to bed."

As Miraz muttered and chuckled against his ear, Peter looked over Miraz's shoulder to where the girl was crying into her hands. She peeked up at him with frightened eyes.

"It's alright," Peter said softly. "Go on." He nodded in the direction of the servant's quarters.

With a gratefully little sob, she struggled to her feet and ran off. Peter was left, holding the drunk king awkwardly in his arms.

"You," the king said, his breath hot and heavy on Peter's neck. "Do you love your king? Your mighty ruler? Your true sovereign?" His voice was so garbled Peter could barely make out the words.

"Y-yes, my king, of course," Peter replied, patting the king's back as if Miraz were a child. "Please, lean on me sire. I will bring you back inside…" He took Miraz's arm and tried to lead the man towards the nearest doorway.

"Do you love me?!" Miraz roared suddenly, grabbing Peter so hard that they both stumbled. As Peter struggled to keep a grip on Miraz's robes, the king doubled over, panting and heaving. He was making loud, raspy noises, as if he was going to be sick.

"Sire!" Peter gasped weakly, as he realized Miraz was sobbing.

Clumsily, Miraz shoved Peter away. The king fell to his knees on the cold ground, and he beat at it with a fist, groaning like a madman.

Peter stood next to him, frozen in shock. The monster-king, the man who had taken him away from his family, from his love, the man who had raped and humiliated him, was writhing about on the ground as if heartsick. How Peter had hated Miraz! How he had despised the king!

Yet now, stripped of all his dignity and cold poise, showing nothing but raw emotion, Miraz was to Peter, just a broken man. Peter could not help but pity him.

"You!" Miraz gasped, looking up at Peter as if seeing him for the first time. The king had a faraway look in his eye, as if he couldn't remember where they were, and Peter was alarmed.

"You," the king said, and he struggled to his feet. "You were too soft, too weak," Miraz ground out, and he stalked towards Peter on unsteady legs. "Narnia needed a strong king. There was no room for soft-heartedness, don't you see?"

The king had an almost desperate look in his eyes, and he clutched at his heart, pulling at the fabric of his shirt.

"I did it for my _son!_" Miraz said. "I hated you, yes, but I did it for my child!"

Miraz reached out for Peter but he stumbled, and the boy rushed forward to steady the king. Miraz immediately wrapped his arms around Peter's middle, hanging on tightly.

"Caspian, Caspian… it was always _Caspian!_ Even now, your name haunts me… Our father loved you, because you were kind. I would have been kind too, if only there was room for it. Love…"

The king broke off with a sigh that was half a sob, and he slumped in Peter's arms. Distressed at seeing the man he hated being so vulnerable, Peter gently pressed Miraz's face to his chest and ran his fingers through the man's hair.

"You must get up, my king," Peter whispered, lips numbed by the chill.

"King…" Miraz murmured with a hint of irony in his voice. "How I longed to be king, and here I am. Do you love your king?"

"Yes," Peter breathed, struggling to lift up the nearly limp man. "You are great, sire. Your enemies, even as they gritted their teeth in hate, have called you a great man, and a formidable ruler."

A ringed hand reached up to cup his cheek, and Peter stopped his rambling, shocked at the gentleness of the touch.

Hesitantly, Peter looked down on Miraz's face, and was surprised when the king leaned up and kissed him softly. A gasp escaped from Peter's throat and his eyes slipped closed at the sudden rush of sensation. How long had it been since he had been kissed this way?

There was no force, no domination behind the kiss, and it almost seemed as if the king was being _tender_. Peter could still taste the wine on Miraz's lips, but it was strangely sweet.

"You taste of summer," the king murmured against Peter's mouth, his words slurred and heavy.

"Please, your majesty," Peter sighed, anxious to be rid of the warm feeling that had stolen its way into his stomach. He loathed the very thought of finding comfort in Miraz's arms. "It's cold out here. Here, take my arm, and I will bring you back inside."

The king did not resist this time, and was rather compliant. Using all his strength, Peter lifted the king to his feet and got him walking. Peter guided the drunk man indoors, then up a flight of stairs to his own bedchambers. As they reached the bed, Miraz, in a sudden fit of passion, tried to embrace Peter. But, the wine made the king unable to do more than land a few kisses before he slumped onto the mattress, snoring loudly.

With a troubled sigh, Peter curled up on the edge of the mattress, facing away from the king. He was asleep when Miraz turned over and put an arm around his waist.

………………………………

………………………………

Miraz had a splitting headache when he awoke the next morning. The sun was barely up when a frantic knocking stirred him from sleep. The boy was still slumbering in his arms, and Miraz was careful not to wake him as the he rose from the bed.

In an unusually gentle gesture, the king pulled the rumpled covers over Peter, tucking them under the boy's chin. The boy murmured softly, and stirred. The knocking was growing louder, and the annoyed king, whose aching temples made him crankier than usual, quickly walked to the door.

"What is it?" Miraz whispered angrily, flinging the door open. His tirade died on his lips as he saw who it was. The man standing there was the leader of the five assassins Miraz had sent to do away with Prince Caspian.

"Your majesty," said the assassin, bowing deeply. The man had obviously just arrived at the castle. His clothes were weather worn, and his eyes told of fatigue.

"Well?" the king demanded quietly. "Did you do the deed?"

A smug grin came over the assassin's face. "Yes, sire," he said. "The prince tried to flee, but I and my men gave chase. We drove him into the river, and he was lost in its icy depths. The prince is dead, my Lord."

Miraz closed his eyes briefly and gave a long sigh. He rubbed a hand over his face. "You and your men will be well compensated," said the king.

The mercenary smiled again, his scarred lip twisting. He gave another bow and left. Miraz, who looked utterly relieved, closed the door and turned around.

The king nearly jumped in surprise when he saw Peter standing in the middle of the room, pale as a ghost. By the boy's horrified countenance, the king had no doubt that Peter had heard the entire hushed exchange.

"Murderer!" Peter gasped, blue eyes already pooling over with shining tears.

Miraz cursed under his breath and started to move towards the boy, but Peter immediately backed up, as if the king's presence was unbearable.

"Y-you killed him!" the boy choked out, his hands clenched into pale fists. "Oh, how could you? He was your own nephew!"

"You will keep silent about this, boy," Miraz growled quietly, stalking towards Peter.

"Monster!" Peter cried accusingly, darting around a table, trying to keep as much distance between then as he could.

"I am no monster!" the king shouted, knocking the table aside with a sweep of his fist. Teardrops were rolling down Peter's pink cheeks as the boy stared at the Miraz in absolute horror.

"I am no monster," the king repeated, wringing his hands. Miraz looked at Peter almost pleadingly, even as the boy shrank away from him. "It had to be done," Miraz rambled. "I had to do it, don't you see? You wouldn't understand such things… No, no, but it had to be done!"

"Stay away from me!" Peter cried out shrilly, and he shoved Miraz away. "_You've murdered Caspian!_"

With a loud sob, Peter ran past the king and burst out of the room. As he bolted down the corridor, the guards tried to stop him.

"Leave him be!" Miraz called wearily from the doorway, and the guards let Peter pass.

Peter ran and ran, breathing raggedly. Tears blurred his vision and he could barely see where he was going. Somehow he ended up outside, in one of the gardens. The scent of winter roses assailed his senses, and brought back sharp, painful memories of his dalliances with Caspian.

With a strangled moan, Peter fell to his knees, not caring the he scraped them on the hard ground. His chest was heaving, and wrenching sobs were being torn from his aching throat. He clapped both hands over his mouth, as if trying to keep his soul from escaping. It felt like he was dying, and that the world was being splintered around him, like brittle ice.

He screamed into his fist, and only the birds were witness to his sorrow.

……………………

Notes: i'm so sorry for how long this chapter took! i'm back at school, and life is kinda hectic now. thank u all so much for sticking with this story!


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Chapter 17

…………………

"Everything is in order, sire," General Glozelle said, standing at attention as Miraz inspected the war machine.

"Good," the king said curtly, running his eyes over every inch of the brick monument. "The traitor's attempted sabotage did not damage much, then?"

"No, sire. Whatever small damages were easily fixed. These machines are battle-worthy."

"Very well, then, general. We shall see just how well they work when we take this one to battle."

…………………………………………………….

All his life, Peter had tried to avoid despair, no matter what happened. When the Telmarines had attacked his home, when his father died, and his mother was taken away, when Susan left home and Edmund began to lose hope, Peter had always kept to faith. But this time, the wound was cut too deep.

From the fragile heart that beat senselessly within his chest, to the cold hands that were so still, to the pale lips that were too frightened to speak his lover's name, his body became nothing more than a mass of flesh that anchored him to the living world.

When it became too painful to wander the hallways, because the ghost of Caspian's laughter would follow him, Peter confined himself to his room. Only when the king demanded it, Peter come out and follow Miraz to the meals.

As time passed, he stopped refusing the wine that the king offered him. It dulled the pain, made it easier to bear. Wine also made him no longer dread when the king came to him at night. It was so much easier to lay back and let Miraz do as he will. It barely hurt anymore.

After Caspian died, Peter had stopped _living_, stopped _feeling_. Only the thought, that maybe Susan was still alive and well, kept Peter from holding his head under the bath until he drowned himself.

……………………………………..

"What is your name, Telmarine?" Susan interrogated, her voice sounding loud and harsh in the darkness of her tent.

Caspian, whose head was still hurting from when she threw him into the table, was sitting in a most uncomfortable chair. Susan loomed above him, and though the prince was sure he was at least a head taller than Susan, she still looked rather imposing.

"I am Prince Caspian the Tenth, Crown Prince to the Telmarine throne," he said, his head raised proudly.

"Crown Prince?" she said. "And what would a Crown Prince be doing out in the Western Wild?"

"I was abducted," he replied, and winced when his cut lip started bleeding again. "Narnians took me captive, and… and tried to have me killed. They were monstrous…" He shivered slightly at the memory of the dark creatures holding him prisoner.

"How terrible," Susan said flatly, her lip quirking upwards. "We Narnians certainly are very evil, to have abducted you."

"No," Caspian said hastily. "I meant, the others… the ones who took me. There were ghosts, and wraiths… You and your people rescued me from them. I'm sorry I attacked you and the badger. I thought you were one of _them._"

Susan sighed. "Well, we aren't. You're lucky, you know. If I and my soldiers hadn't gotten to you in time, you would have become the blood sacrifice to the White Witch."

"The White Witch?" Caspian gasped. "But I thought the Witch died hundreds of years ago."

"Her spirit lingers, as a witch's spirit often does, and the evil remnants of her people are always trying to bring her back. They hide out in the Western Woods, but once in a while, they grow bold and try to abduct a human so they can use his blood to bring her back to life. The Lion's Army has been keeping an eye on their stronghold, to protect whatever unfortunate victim they may have caught."

"Thank you," said Caspian quietly. "I owe you my life."

"Of course," said Susan, with a slight smirk, "just because I have saved you doesn't mean I trust you, _Crown Prince_. You are the enemy, after all."

"I do not come as your enemy," Caspian declared, standing up on unsteady legs. He stumbled, and Susan pushed him back into the chair. He sat back down with a thump.

"I come as your ally." At Susan's questioning glance, the prince then proceeded to tell her everything that had happened to him, his exile, Miraz's attempted assassination, and his relations with Peter, her brother.

"If you will allow me, my Lady," he finished, "I offer you and your army whatever help I can. I will fight for you."

Susan stared at him coolly for a minute, after he had stopped talking. Then, as if the ice behind her eyes had thawed, her expression softened. "How is my brother, Peter?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Caspian, shaking his head worriedly. "I can only hope that he is still well… I would do anything to bring him safely out of Miraz's clutches."

"Do you love him, then?" she asked.

"With all my heart," he said, without hesitation, and Susan seemed satisfied.

Just then, the tent flap was thrown open, and Rynelf stepped in. He looked harried and breathless, as if he had been riding all day.

"Prince Caspian!" he cried, and rushed forwards. With a laugh of delight, Caspian jumped up and embraced his old friend.

"Rynelf!" he exclaimed. "I never thought I'd see you here! Oh, it's wonderful to see a familiar face!"

They embraced again, and Rynelf, full of relief at seeing the prince alive, told Caspian quickly of his escape from Miraz's castle and his joining with Susan's army.

"But we must not tarry here," Rynelf said, sobering up and turning to Susan. "I bring you grave news. We must pull back before Miraz's army arrives."

"What?" Susan gasped. "We can't pull back now. The soldiers have already prepared for battle!"

"Miraz has constructed war machines," Rynelf said, his face grave and pale. "He is bringing them to the battle, and our troops are no match for them. With such a weapon, Miraz's army will decimate us!"

"What weapon do you speak of?" Susan demanded. "What is so great that we cannot defeat?"

"I've seen them," Caspian spoke up. "They are monstrous contraptions, catapults that hurl flame as well as rock. Rynelf is right, Susan. You must pull back if Miraz plans to use them!"

Susan shook her head stubbornly. "We are not going anywhere. Our troops are ready and willing to fight, tonight. Our scouts have already been stationed in the west. What would you have me do? Miraz will not call off the battle just because we retreat."

"My Lady, please listen to reason," Rynelf pleaded. He walked over to the table which held maps of the terrain. "Look, we can head south, where there is higher ground. If we encamp ourselves there, among the thicker forests, the Telmarine army will not be able to bring the machine through."

"We won't need to run away," Susan said, a hint of anger in her voice. "Whatever catapults Miraz will bring, the gryphons can take them out from the air. We will prepare for battle, tonight."

She spun around to leave.

"Wait!" Caspian called. He wavered slightly on his feet, but caught up to her before she went outside. "It would be madness, to go to battle. I have seen Miraz's machines, and no force, short of an earthquake, can destroy them. It would be slaughter!"

"Sit down, prince," Susan said, angrily calm. "I have not led this army for two years just to be chastised by you."

"Then let me fight alongside you," Caspian said, frustrated by her. "Show me to your soldiers, so I can march with them."

"They will not fight with a Telmarine, prince or not," she said simply, before she left. "And you are wounded, so you must rest."

…………………………………………

The drums of war were beating heavily. To the west of Susan's camp, the dwarves, mice, and fleet-footed beasts ambushed Sopespian's foot-soldiers. To the north, on the other side of the River Rush, Susan and the main part of her army attacked Miraz's infantry.

The Narnians, strengthened by their first victory, went into battle with fierce determination, and Susan led them. The archers took out the front lines of the Telmarine soldiers, and as more troops surged forth, the Narnians attacked with ferocity.

Then, the machine had been brought forward. Just as Caspian had said, it was monstrous, drawn on wheels by four straining horses.

With a shout, Susan signaled the gryphons, but the heavy boulders, dropped from the sky, did not do much against the catapult, which was made of solid brick. Then, the machine came to life at the clever hands of the Telmarine engineers. It roared like a beast, and shot out flaming projectiles with great force, straight into Susan's ranks.

All around her was darkness and confusion as the Narnians panicked and ran. She tried to run forwards, shooting her bow blindly at the enemy, but the flame drove her back.

Amidst the screams of the dying, Susan screamed for a retreat.

………………………………..

Three days after the king left for war, Queen Prunaprismia summoned Peter to her chambers. One of her personal guard was sent to fetch him, which was to clearly state that Peter had no say in the matter. Listless and pale, the Narnian went without much resistance. He didn't care what happened to him anymore…

The queen was smiling when he came through her door. She had a table set up, with two chairs and cup of wine. She greeted him warmly and beckoned for him to sit.

Knowing she was up to something, but not caring, Peter bowed respectfully to her, and sat.

"My husband is very fond of you," she said, her painted lips turned upwards into a lovely smile. "And I have always wanted to meet with you, to sit and talk with you. It is not often that I can have idle company, especially with a Narnian. Shall we be friends?"

"You do me great honor," Peter said simply, not failing to notice the guard that had come to stand behind him.

The queen smiled even wider, and pushed the single goblet towards him.

"Have a drink," she said, and her voice was sickly sweet.

Peter looked down into the goblet. The wine was red as blood.

_Poison, of course, _Peter thought. Prunaprismia wasn't being very subtle about it, the way she watched him like a hawk.

He looked down into the cup, mesmerized by the ruby liquid.

Poison…

Liquid death… _well, why not?_

"You would not insult your queen by refusing a drink poured from her own hand, would you?" Prunaprismia prompted.

Slowly, Peter wrapped both hands around the cup and brought it to his lips.

Would he be allowed to be with Caspian? Would he see his father again?

_I would gladly wander the Shadowlands for an eternity, searching endlessly in a world of gray, if it meant I could enter Aslan's Country and be with you again. _

"Of course not, Your Majesty," Peter said, smiling gently. He lifted the goblet to her, in a macabre toast, and without hesitation, downed the contents.

Sucking in the tangy liquid, as if it were the sweetest nectar, Peter did not stop until the goblet was empty of every drop. His mouth was stained a horrible red when he was done, and the queen was looking at him in mixture of triumph and excitement.

He stood from his chair, and almost immediately, a crippling spasm of pain ran up his chest. As he uttered a choked-off cry, his hands seized uncontrollably, and the goblet fell to the floor.

Shakily walking forwards, with one hand braced on the table, Peter knelt before the queen, who recoiled slightly.

With trembling hands, the boy took her delicate hand from her lap and kissed her ring reverently.

"It was never my intention," Peter said, as clearly as he could, though his tongue was growing heavy, "to have caused you pain or anger, Your Majesty. For that, I am sorry, so sorry."

He forced the muscles in his fingers to let go of the queen's hand. With much difficulty, he stood and turned to walk out. The guard did not try to stop him.

He had almost reached the door when the second spasm made him double over, gasping for breath. The room spun alarmingly around him, and he tried to reach out for the wall, the door jamb, anything to steady himself.

Peter fell, and barely felt himself hit the floor. It was as if liquid fire was burning inside of him, and his body contracted with the terrible pain. With contorted hands clutching at his face, he screamed hoarsely, gagging on the bile that rose to his throat.

He couldn't see the queen, who had walked over to calmly watch him writhe on her carpet. He couldn't hear the frightened clamoring of the servants at the door. He didn't feel it when, several long minutes later, someone stormed in and lifted him up, trying to revive him.

………………………………….

Edmund sighed as he ducked into the tent, bowl of oatmeal in his hands. Since Susan, and the better part of the Narnian troops, were off to do battle, there were few helping hands around the camp and the responsibility of caring for the prisoners became Edmund's.

Lord Arlian, who still remained Susan's hostage, though he failed to provide any useful information, was lying down on his cot. Sullenly, Edmund handed the prisoner his meal and stayed to watch the Telmarine eat, making sure the hostage did not try to escape while his bonds were loose.

"You are worried about your sister," Arlian remarked casually after awhile, stirring the wooden spoon.

Edmund realized that he had been frowning, his brow wrinkled, and staring into space.

"I understand. I'd be worried too, if I were you. She's your family, after all," the Telmarine continued.

"Susan's fine," Edmund said, a bit perturbed that the man was talking to him. "Nothing's going to happen to her. She's been leading this army for years."

"Ahh, so it's the elder sister you're worried about," said the Telmarine, a bemused expression on his face, and Edmund flushed at his slip-up.

"You _should_ be worried for her," Arlian continued. "She cannot hope to win this war, and Miraz is not kind towards his enemies. Just look at Prince Caspian. The king has exiled his own nephew, just because the boy disobeyed him. Imagine what revenge he will take for his war prisoners, if they aren't killed first."

"I shouldn't be speaking to you," Edmund said warily, backing away slightly.

"But you are," Arlian said simply, shrugging. He fell silent for the next few minutes, sipping at his porridge. When Edmund took away the empty bowl, and turned to leave, Arlian laid a gentle hand on the boy's arm.

"King Miraz may be cruel to his enemies," the Telmarine said softly, "but he can be kind too, to those who help him. I was one of his court before I was brought here, and I happen to know that the king has decreed to grant a full pardon to any Narnian of the Resistance, if that Narnian does him favor."

"What favor would a Narnian do for Miraz? And who would do that? No one I know would do such a thing," Edmund said, snorting. He pulled away from the man.

"What about a Narnian that was tired of the war?" Arlian said, looking pointedly at Edmund. "Someone who just wished to have a peaceful life, and wanted his family safe? The king can grant you that, and more, if you do something to earn his favor, such as, say, helping one of the king's loyal courtiers escape from imprisonment."

"What?" Edmund said, almost laughing. "You're mad if you think I'll help you escape."

Arlian shook his head. "It could be the only chance for you and your family to return from this hopeless war, alive and unscathed."

"You're mad," Edmund repeated, shaking his head at the man.

There was a commotion outside, and Edmund, with a cautious glance at the prisoner, rushed out of the tent. He gasped in consternation when he saw the return of Susan and her troops. There were shockingly few soldiers that had come back, and there were many wounded. A terrible panic overtook Edmund, when he failed to see Susan among the survivors.

When she appeared, walking next to Glenstorm, Edmund let out a huge breath of relief. But, by her pale, dejected face, it was obvious that they had lost the battle. Edmund felt his throat catch at the sight of his sister, walking with her head down, face cut and bloody.

…………………………………………….

Caspian had rushed out to meet Susan, the minute he heard her troops returning. He was grim-faced, but unsurprised, when he saw the results of the battle.

"What happened?" he asked unnecessarily, as Susan passed, but she remained stony-faced and silent, not even pausing to glance at him. She disappeared into her tent without a word, sorrow and guilt in her blue eyes. It was Rynelf, after the dreary procession had passed, who took the prince aside and told him of the disaster of the battle.

The day passed in a muted, somber mood. Narnian soldiers busied themselves with tending to the wounded, and the prince helped as best he could, trying to show his goodwill towards them, gathering firewood, carrying water, and helping to feed the sick.

Susan, when she finally exited from the refuge of her tent, pitched in to help. But, she barely spoke, and refused to let anyone tend to her injuries, though it was obvious she had been hurt.

It was nearing nightfall when she finally allowed a tearfully worried Lucy to lead her away and sit her down at a campfire.

The younger sister was gently untying the laces to the top of Susan's dress, and rolling down the cloth to expose an abraded shoulder, when Caspian made his way over to their campfire. Edmund was sitting nearby, ripping cloth into bandages, and the boy briefly looked up at the prince with a scowl.

"I am sorry for your loss," said Caspian solemnly to Susan. She remained sitting silently, staring unblinkingly into the orange fire. "I wish that you had heeded our warning."

Her jaw tightened, but Susan still said nothing. She flinched slightly as Lucy started to dab at her shoulder with a wet cloth.

The prince fiddled with his belt, biting his lip before speaking up again. He chose his next words carefully.

"I only want to help you. Truthfully, I have never seen a more valiant group of warriors as the ones in your army. Such a formidable force is something we Telmarines could never have expected. But, it is not enough to defeat Miraz's troops. For that, you need knowledge of his plans.

The king has weapons and soldiers in great number, and he is a skilled war strategist. But I know my uncle, and how he thinks. I was born a Telmarine, and was trained by them. Let me advise your army, and I will do all I can to help the Narnians reclaim this land."

Susan looked up at him then, and Caspian could see defiance and pride in her blue eyes.

"Advise my army?" Susan said coldly. "And by such advice, gain control of the army as well?"

"If I desire control," Caspian replied, "it is only to aid you in your plight."

"_Plight_?" Susan snapped, standing up quickly. Lucy let out a little whimper and shrank back at her sister's anger. "Watch your words, Telmarine. It wasn't so very long ago that _you_ were the one in plight."

Susan stared challengingly at him, hands balled into fists at her sides. He could see her shaking slightly.

"That may be true," Caspian said, refusing to back down. "But you've just lost a battle, and many worthy soldiers, because you refused to listen to reason. You must not make the same mistake again."

It seemed his words had struck a nerve. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Be careful," Susan warned, eyes blazing. "You are no prince here, in my camp, and I am no subject of yours. Don't you _dare_ to tell me what I must do."

With a scornful, dismissive glance, she spun on her heels and started to stalk back to her tent.

"A good leader should wish what is best for her people," Caspian called after Susan. "Will you let more of them die, just to fuel your pride?"

She stopped, freezing in her tracks, her body tensing. Caspian took a step towards her, moving to put a calming hand on her shoulder.

The instant he touched her, she spun around with a furious cry and pointed her knife at his throat.

"My pride," she growled, "would have me kill you right now for such an accusation. Your love for my brother stays my hand."

Trying not to flinch, Caspian breathed deeply and moved his hand to his waist, only to realize that he had no weapon. The blade was dangerously close to his jugular and Susan's erratic movements were unnerving, to say the least. People around the camp were gathering around, speaking in nervous whispers, but Susan ignored them.

As she threatened him, Caspian saw Rynelf move out of the corner of his eye. The faithful guard had a hand on his sword hilt as he moved in front of them. Rynelf drew his sword out halfway.

"My Lady," said Rynelf gravely, "I had come to you as an ally. At great risk, I had turned against my own people, to help you, and to help Narnia. But I cannot stand by while you attack Prince Caspian, as he is unarmed."

Susan stared at him furiously for a moment, then broke into a humorless laugh. Taking a step back, she flipped her knife around so that the hilt was pointing at Caspian. She tossed it at the prince, who caught it, confused.

"He is not unarmed anymore, now is he?" she said mockingly. Before anyone could react, she drew her sword from her belt with a ring of steel, and swung it at Caspian.

The prince barely dodged in time to avoid having his chest slashed open. Lucy screamed and ran to Edmund. The camp broke out in cries of surprise and dread, but no one dared to step forward and stop her.

Susan, oblivious to anything but her pent-up frustration, anger, sorrow, and overwhelming guilt, attacked again, like a creature gone wild. Running forwards with a ferocious scream, she thrust the point of her blade at Caspian's unprotected neck.

With a loud clash, her sword was deflected, but to her surprise, it wasn't Caspian or Rynelf who had parried. It was Glenstorm, who had galloped over.

The centaur gave a mighty push with his broadsword, and Susan staggered back, startled.

Glenstorm stared into the girl's face, sterner than Susan had ever seen him. "Many of our soldiers, _your_ soldiers, lie wounded, Lady," he said, in his deep voice. "Will you disturb them, when they should be resting? Have you not done enough fighting, for today?"

Susan realized she was trembling, and dropped her arm limply to the side. The centaur, face lined with years of wisdom, looked at her, and he seemed so _disappointed._ Unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her head to her chest, panting. All of a sudden, she felt so weary, and ashamed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, but Glenstorm had already turned around and left. She looked up at Rynelf and Caspian, both of whom were looking at her with concern. She looked around her, and saw the frightened, worried faces of the Narnians.

"I'm sorry," she said again, clapping a hand to her mouth to muffle a sob. Before she could break out in tears, she dropped her sword to the ground, turned around, and ran off into the woods.

"Susan, don't go!" Lucy cried out, and she tried to run after her.

"Wait!" Caspian said, grabbing the little girl's arm. "I'll go after her."

Tucking Susan's knife into his belt, the prince hurried after the wayward girl.

It was dark, and Caspian could barely see as he ran into the woods. The trees were thick, and he almost fell over his feet, once or twice. He called her name, frantically searching for her with eyes and ears.

A muffled cry caught his attention, and Caspian ran towards the general direction of the sound. He found her, sitting at the foot of a tree, face in her hands. He hurried over.

"Are you alright?" he asked, panting. He could see her shoulders shaking, and he took off his cloak, bent down, and drew it around her.

Susan sniffled, and wiped at her face. Looking up at him with a grateful and vulnerable look in her eyes, she drew the cloth tightly around herself, shivering.

"I was quite foolish, wasn't I?" she said quietly, her voice wavering. "You must think me so horribly foolish, and arrogant."

"No," Caspian said, in a soothing voice, kneeling down beside her. "Not foolish at all."

He looked into her dejected face, wet with tears, and felt a wave of sympathy roll over him. She was so young, younger than him, younger than Peter. How she had survived to see the horrors of war was a miracle.

Hoping he wasn't being too forward, Caspian put an arm around her, and after a moment's hesitation she lay her weary head on his chest.

"Susan, I just want to help," he whispered gently. "Won't you trust me? Your brother did. I swear, all I want is to help you defeat Miraz, so his tyranny would no longer hurt anyone. All I want is to have peace, and to have Peter safely back."

"And what then?" she demanded quietly, not acquiescing but not challenging either. "Would you take the throne? Become the next Telmarine king, after all we've done to rid ourselves of Miraz?"

"The crown is rightfully mine," Caspian said, "but I am not like Miraz. If ever I should reclaim my throne, I will do all that I can to restore peace and freedom to Narnia. Do you believe me, Susan?"

She sniffled again, and looked up into earnest brown eyes. His body was warm against hers, and his arm felt so comforting. Slowly, she nodded.

Smiling gratefully, Caspian laid a chaste kiss on her forehead. Susan's eyes slipped closed, and she sighed at the feel of his lips. He pulled back, and slid strong arms underneath hers, helping her stand.

"Let's get back," he said, "or they will come searching for us."

He started to walk, leading her by the arm, but she caught him with a hand on his neck. Leaning in, Susan pressed an impulsive kiss on the corner of Caspian's mouth, and her fingers slid into the collar of his shirt.

"No," Caspian immediately said, gently but firmly taking a hold of her wrist. He looked at her steadily, and she lowered her eyes, pursing her lips together.

"Susan…"

"We should be getting back," she said, and quickly walked ahead of him, towards the camp.

……………………………………

"_Shh, it'll be alright, Peter."_

"_M..ma…" the boy whimpered. It was so dark, and the only light came from a flickering candle from the low wooden bedside table. _

"_Don't worry, dear," said the dark-haired woman, smiling gently. Her face, illuminated by the yellow light, was like a beacon of light and warmth. _

_She stroked the sweaty blond hair of the feverish, ten-year-old boy. He tried to speak, but his chapped lips were sore. His skinny, shivering hands clutched the blanket to his chin. _

"_I know it hurts, but you shouldn't have been playing in the rain." Her voice, sweet as a soothing balm, was growing hazy._

Don't leave me! _Peter wanted to scream, but the pale, trembling lips of the boy-child would not obey him._

"_Sleep well, and everything will be alright in the morning. You'll see. Sweet dreams, my love," she said, and she bent down to kiss the boy on the cheek. Then, she took the candle from the table and left, leaving the boy in darkness and pain._

……………………………………….

"No, mother, don't leave me!" Peter sobbed hoarsely, twisting his head to and fro on the sweat-stained pillow.

"His fever is getting worse," the physician droned from the foot of the bed, sounding rather disdainful at having to treat a Narnian.

A hand came to rest on Peter's flushed cheek. It was warm, and the boy moaned and tried to get away from it, but the heavy rings on the fingers were blessedly cool.

"How could this happen?" the king fumed. "Is there no order in my household when I am away?"

Miraz, still clad in battle clothes, heaved a great sigh. "Do what you can for him."

_His father's hands were tanned and strong. Peter remembered how hard, yet soft they were. Gentle and sturdy, hard and soft. _

_Those hands were strong and skilled as they wielded the chisel, driving the tool into the wood. Peter, only six years old, peeped in from the doorway to his father's workroom. The bright blue eyes were shining with curiosity as the child watched. _

_His father's hands, always sure, always unwavering, drove the chisel into the wood with steady strokes. The brown shavings curled up, and fell away from the edge of the tool, and Peter giggled, at how the curly wood shavings reminded him of his mother's hair._

_His father looked up from his work and smiled, catching the boy that was hiding behind the door. Instead of scolding him, Peter's father beckoned the boy over._

_Then, his hands were no longer hard, but soft. They were warm, and ever so gentle as the man guided the boy's tiny hands to touch the array of carpenter's tools, spread out on the table. _

_Chisel, awl, mallet, hammer, saw, file….._

_They were the hard, cold, metal instruments that were the implements of his father's life. The young boy's hand, still chubby from baby fat, was engulfed in the larger, callused hand as Peter's father steered it over the metal tools, letting Peter become familiar with the feel and weight of them. _

_Peter and Peter, both with straw-colored hair. One stood tall, watching his son with loving eyes, while the younger stood on tiptoes, perched on a stool so that he could reach the worktable. _

_The yellow afternoon sun streamed in through the window, and set the whole place ablaze with light. The boy giggled again as he saw the motes of wood-dust dancing in the sunbeams. _

_So warm, so soft._

_His father's hands were gentle again, as they lay over his mother's, later that night. Their fingers were dusted white with flour as Peter's father rolled his hands over Helen's, teasingly helping to roll the bread dough underneath her palms. _

_Peter watched Susan coo at a baby Edmund, the dark-haired infant sitting happily on top of the kitchen table. _

_The boy watched as his father's fingers intertwined with his mother's, and a tender look passed between his parents. _

A tear leaked out of the corner of Peter's closed eyelid, and trickled down his cheek to land on the pillow. Miraz bent over the sleeping boy, dabbed at the wetness with a silk handkerchief, then tucked it into his pocket.

"_You have to stop this!" Helen yelled. She snatched the letters from her husband's desk and threw them to the floor, in a fit of anger. She was crying._

"_Why must you try to be a hero? The Resistance does not need you! _We _are the ones who need you. Peter looks up to you, and he needs you to be there for him, instead of trying to get yourself killed in this rebellion!"_

"_How can I stand idly by?" the man replied, his voice low and angry. "Narnians are being imprisoned, enslaved, and killed! Each passing day, _our people_ are suffering. The Resistance is trying to fight back, to make things better, to make a better future for our children!"_

"_Our children need you _here!_" his wife shouted back. "_I _need you here!"_

"_I am only trying to protect my family!"_ _he said, slapping the desk with his hand._

_Peter and Susan, who were watching from the other room, held each other tightly, tears streaming down their faces. Their parents were fighting again. _

"_Dad won't go off to war, will he?" Peter whispered, seeking reassurance from Susan, even though he was the older one. _

"_If he does, I want to go too!" Susan said fiercely, even though she was crying. Lucy started wailing from her crib, and so did Edmund._

"Dad…" Peter croaked, through a throat that was burning and dry. He groaned, back arching off the bed as another tremor of pain wracked through his body. His mouth was bleeding, and his face was flushed red with fever.

Someone pressed a cup of water to his mouth, and Peter opened his sore lips to drink. It hurt, going down, but it washed the bitter taste of blood and bile away.

_It was that night again. The houses were burning, and people were screaming and running. The Telmarines were there, dark and terrible, riding their monstrous horses. Everything was black, and orange, and red._

_His mother was wailing, sobbing, as she sat on the ground and cradled Peter's father in her arms. He was dead, and his blood stained his wife's face and dress._

_Peter ran over and tried to see, tried to get to his father, wanted to shake him awake, but Helen pushed him back. _

"_Go get your sisters and brother," his mother ordered hoarsely. "Make sure they stay inside."_

"_But Dad…!" Peter protested. _

"_Do as I say!" Helen cried, wiping the tears from her face. _

_Frightened, Peter ran towards the house, only to stagger back in shock when a Telmarine soldier stepped in front of him and grabbed him by his shirt. He cried out in terror as he saw his siblings being similarly hauled out of the house, still in their pajamas. _

_Lucy was screaming as a soldier pulled at her hair, and Edmund was struggling with all his strength, biting and kicking. Susan was trying to hit her attacker with her fists, but was subdued when the Telmarine struck her on the head. _

"_No, leave her alone!" Peter screamed, struggling, but his captor laughed and pushed him to the ground. A sword was held to the boy's throat._

"_What will it be, woman?" the soldier sneered at Helen. "Will you lose a son along with your husband? Or will you come along quietly?"_

_They took his mother away that night, and Peter could do nothing but weep, holding onto his siblings for comfort. The surviving townspeople helped the children bury their father the next day._

"Aaaah!" Peter screamed in agony, as he was lowered into a lukewarm bath, the change in temperature shocking his feverish body. He struggled blindly, but they held him down, until he was too tired to move.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, clothes were applied to his forehead and the back of his neck, Miraz's physicians desperately trying to bring down his temperature.

"_Peter, come help me draw a picture," Lucy whined, the colored chalk scraping messily over the paper. _

"_Alright, Lu," Peter sighed wearily, setting down the load of firewood and walking over to where his younger sister sat at the kitchen table. It was better to occupy Lucy with drawing, so the girl wouldn't be reminded of how little food they had, or how cold it was. _

_In the corner, Susan sat in their mother's old rocking chair, knitting needles clacking away rather clumsily in her hands. Edmund sat at her feet, dark head leaning against her legs, eyes closed._

"_What do you want to draw?" Peter asked Lucy._

"_Mother and Father!" the little girl chirped happily, and Peter saw Susan stiffen from across the room. _

"_Alright, then," Peter said sadly, and he took Lucy's hand in his own, guiding the colored chalk over the paper to make her picture. _

He couldn't feel Lucy's hand anymore, and Peter tried to grab for it. His hand met air, and distressed, he called out his sister's name. Eyes clenched tightly against the pain in his head, he cried out again and again, writhing in his sheets.

His stomach turned, and he barely had time to turn his head to the side before he retched. Thankfully, a servant was there to lift him up so that he could heave into a bowl.

_The bowstring twanged as Susan released the arrow. It hit the crude target with a hollow thunk. The fifteen-year-old girl's face was solemn as she pulled another arrow from her quiver and notched it. _

"_So that's it, then?" Peter demanded, as he stood and watched. "You're leaving?" _

_She nodded. "Tomorrow," she replied._

_Peter let out an angry breath and crossed his arms over his chest. Susan sighed and lowered her bow, looking at Peter's upset countenance. _

"_I thought you'd be happy for me," she said, a bit sadly. _

"Happy?" _Peter said, disbelievingly. "How can I be happy when you are abandoning us? After all we've been through together?" _

"_That's just it, Peter," Susan pleaded. "All we've been through. I don't want to do it anymore, playing mother. I want to be myself. Can you understand that?" _

"_No, I can't, Susan," Peter said quietly, shaking his head. "This is your home. Lucy and Edmund need you. We made a promise to take care of them, remember?"_

_When she made no reply, he started to walk away, but she laid down her bow and ran after him. Grabbing his shoulder, she turned him around and embraced him tightly. He tried to pull free, but she hung on until he stopped struggling. Sniffling slightly, he hugged her back._

"_I love you, Peter," she said, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "There isn't a better brother in all the world. I just… I just wish that I could have been a better sister."_

_He could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes, but he held them back. Cupping Susan's face in his hands, he tilted her head backwards and kissed her brow. _

"_Stay safe," he whispered to her, as if it were a prayer. _

Someone was shouting nearby, and Peter moaned, trying to block out the noise. It hurt his ears.

"He is all you ever think of!" a woman was shrieking. "How long has it been, since you've slept in your own bed? How long has it been, since you've gone to see your own son? He's dying, and still you can't leave him alone!"

"Silence!" someone shouted loudly. "You are lucky that you're the mother of my child, or I would have you thrown into the dungeons for such impertinence. _Never_ try to do something like this again, woman!"

The noises were so loud….

"_And that one?" Caspian murmured in Peter's ear, pointing up to the constellations in the night sky. They lay together on the roof of the north tower. _

"_It's the Hammer," Peter replied, snuggling into Caspian's arms. _

"_And that one?" _

_Peter craned to see where the prince was pointing. "The Ship," he replied._

"_And what about that one?"_

"_Umm…the Leopard," Peter said, distracted by the way Caspian was kissing his neck. "That tickles!" he complained teasingly. _

_Caspian chuckled lowly, and kissed Peter's jaw. Then, lovingly, the prince wrapped his arms around the other boy and kissed Peter deeply on the mouth. _

"Caspian…" the boy rasped, as he lay in bed. After three days, he was finally still, no longer struggling, no longer crying out deliriously. His face was so pale that one could see the blue veins under his eyelids. His lips were chapped and broken. His hands lay limply at his sides.

"Is there truly nothing more you can do?" Miraz asked the doctor, rubbing his face tiredly.

In response, the doctor shook his head.

_He lay in a great field of grass, as if felled in battle. He wore no helm or shield, but it hurt all the same. It was agony, feeling the poison spread through his body, but the pain was somehow numbed, as if Peter was detached from it. _

_From the distance, a Lion was approaching. It was golden, and so very bright, like the sun. His paws made no sound on the grass, as He walked over to where Peter lay._

_The boy tried to reach up, to put his hands on the Lion's mane, but his aching fingers slipped._

"_Am I going to die?" he asked the great Lion. His voice was weak, not even a whisper._

_The Lion stared at Peter with His golden eyes, then threw back its head and roared, and the entire world shook._

Peter jerked awake with a shuddering gasp. For the first time, in what seemed like days, he was lucid.

Someone had pulled a white sheet over his face, and he shook it off. Trembling from the ache in his joints, Peter sat up on the bed. The room was dark, and he was alone.

His head was throbbing, and his throat was dry, but he was _alive_.

……………….

Sorry this chapter took so long! Thank you all so much for reading. Please feedback and let me know what you think!!


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Warning for this chapter: SEX

Chapter 18:

Peter thought he was in the arms of a great, furred beast, and he clung to the dark pelt beneath his fingers. His throat hurt, and he was so dizzy. He slept again, and Miraz held him until he woke.

It was a miracle, the doctor had declared. The boy had been brought back to life from the brink of death. Amazing! Peter, still weak, however, was confined to his bed for the next few days, and slept often. The king would sit by his side, stroking his pale hand.

Peter recovered quickly though, and the king left his bedside. In truth, Miraz found himself becoming weak for the boy, and it disturbed the great king.

……………………

………………….

The air in Narnian camp was tense. Though Sopespian's troops have been driven off to the west, Miraz had retaken Beruna. Any day, the Telmarines would march and attack their camp. With their war machines, and the Narnians having suffered a recent defeat, it was decided that the Narnians would retreat to a safer location in the south.

"You must ride north, and get yourself back to Miraz's castle. Our only hope is to find out some way to defeat the king's machines," Susan told Rynelf. "If you can find out some way, any way, for us to take away Miraz's greatest advantage, then you will help us win the war."

And Rynelf, though he loathed to leave Prince Caspian, readily agreed to take on the mission. He and the prince bid each other a sad farewell the day he was to ride.

But before he left, Susan took him aside and pressed something into his hand, a hair ribbon, plucked from her sister's head.

"Please send me word of my brother," she whispered to him, and Rynelf could see tears in her eyes.

…………………..

………………

The baby was crying again. Loud, drawn-out wails were coming from the open nursery, echoing down the hallway. Where was the nurse? The queen? Why wasn't anyone helping the poor child?

The infant wailed again, sobbing out his complaint, but still, no one came. Was he hungry? Wet? Scared?

Peter stood, back against the stone wall of the hallway, biting down on his lip. He wanted to cover his ears to drown out the prince's cries, as they made Peter's heart ache in sympathy.

_Why was no one coming?_

After a few more minutes, when still, no nurse or queen came running to see to the infant, Peter took a careful glance around. When he saw no sign of guards, Peter, ignoring his previous banishment from the nursery, stepped into the room.

The oak crib, canopied and decorated with white cotton sheets, stood in the center of the room. The baby prince, dressed in pristine white pajamas, was wailing his head off, waving his chubby arms about in the air.

Peter, after another cautious glance behind him to see if anyone was coming, hurried over to the prince, bending over and picking the baby up in gentle arms.

"Shhh," he murmured, rocking the infant back and forth. "It's alright, baby, it's alright. What's wrong, hm? What's the matter?" Peter's voice sounded strange to his own ears, and he realized it was because he hadn't spoken so tenderly in such a long time.

Shifting the baby's head securely into the crook of his elbow, Peter used his free hand to pull back the child's cotton undergarment, to see if he needed a diaper change.

"Well, you're not wet," Peter sighed, patting the baby's bottom, glad that the little prince had at least stopped wailing. Ever so gently, Peter used a corner of the infant's blanket to dab at the moist cheeks. The baby sniffled and whined a little, making a rather sour face at Peter.

"Cheer up, Lamb," Peter said, smiling down at the baby's puckered-up expression. "Your mother will be back soon, I'm sure."

Peter held the baby to his heart, and started rocking again, humming a quiet little lullaby, until the prince stopped fussing. The child, so warm and soft in his arms, stirred up a myriad of memories for Peter that had long been buried. It had been so long since he had held a child in his arms. It had been so long, since he had even _seen_ such a delicate, young creature.

A feeling of incredible tenderness came over him, and Peter smiled warmly, his first real smile in weeks. The prince, now quieted in Peter's arms, opened his tiny little mouth and yawned, squeaking slightly.

Looking up at Peter with curious dark eyes, the baby, perhaps enchanted by the way the afternoon sun was playing on Peter's blond hair, reached out a chubby fist and swatted Peter on the cheek.

Peter laughed softly, utterly captivated by the infant. The prince felt so soft and warm in his arms, so _fragile_. The round eyes were so bright and innocent, it was difficult to think that the baby was Miraz's son.

Holding the baby in his arms, stolen moment though it was, Peter felt as if the darkness in his heart, his suffering, had somehow been left behind. For a little while, at least, he didn't hurt so much inside, anymore.

As if sensing Peter's emotions, the child smiled and gurgled, kicking with his little legs.

"He never looks at me that way. Not anymore."

Startled at the low voice, Peter gasped and whipped his head around.

In the corner of the room, nearly obscured by a shelf of baby's toys, sat Prunaprismia in a rocking chair. She had been watching Peter the entire time.

Speechlessly, he stared back at her. His heart thudded in his chest as he beheld his would-be murderess, yet he could find no word of either reproach or acknowledgment. Instead, he simply bowed his head, a respect anyone would show a queen.

_Had she been there the whole time her baby was crying? Why on earth didn't she do anything? _Peter wondered. He quickly moved to place the baby back in his crib.

"No, there's no need for that," the queen said, her words sounding like a sigh. "He looks like he enjoys being held by you."

Surprised, Peter looked up again, to see the queen still sitting, still staring. Strangely, there was no malice at all in her eyes.

For a long moment, she sat and regarded him silently, and Peter did not know what to do or say. The baby squirmed, and Peter gently rocked him again, murmuring soothingly.

Then, the queen stood, raising herself from the chair, the folds of her dress sliding to settle gracefully on the floor. She wore black, and it looked as though she was in mourning.

As she stood, the light from the window fell upon her face.

Peter gasped sharply. A horrific bruise decorated her left cheek, marring the elegant face. There was a painful-looking gouge on the damaged skin, as if some sharp object had struck her with great force.

"My husband was none too pleased with what I'd done," she said smoothly, catching Peter's reaction. Gingerly, she lifted a shapely hand and touched her bruise. With a little shudder, Peter realized that Miraz must have hit her, while wearing his rings.

"One would think that I'd murdered his own mother, when he found out. Yet, here you are, hale and whole," said the queen, looking at him with an unreadable expression, "holding my child in your arms, bold as always. And my husband is still enamored with you."

She sighed again, and she looked lost and dazed, as if staring at something far away. She looked so different from the last time Peter had seen her. She no longer looked cunning, or regal. Even her beauty seemed faded somewhat. Instead, she seemed tired, and worn, as if Peter's poisoning had affected her just as much.

"I had wanted his child, so that he would grow fond of me," she said, her voice hollow. "Yet now, we are as far apart as ever. And I cannot even bear to look at my own son."

The queen fell silent. Then, without another word or glance, she walked out of the room, leaving Peter standing dumbly by the crib, the prince still in his arms.

"Wait, your majesty!" he called after her, but she was gone.

The baby started crying again, and Peter was busy, trying to coax it. Quite unexpectedly, he had been left as the prince's temporary caretaker.

"Breeze, blowing so softly on your cheek, sleep, dear baby, sleep," he sang, swaying back and forth, until the prince stopped crying. "Hear the nightingale singing its song, sleep, my baby, sleep."

The baby hiccupped in his arms, and Peter, not knowing what else to do, sat in the queen's vacated seat. Rocking back and forth, he talked nonsense to the child, playing with his tiny hands.

Presently, a maid came in. Without a word to Peter, the girl set out clean linens and feeding materials on the table, and bowed out.

When no one else appeared to feed the prince, Peter did it himself. He set the baby down on a pile of blankets, then filled the ceramic feeding bottle with milk and water, warm from a pitcher. There was a snipped-off cow's udder, and Peter fitted it over the bottle's spout.

Holding the infant securely in his arms, Peter fed the prince, then held the baby over his shoulder to burp him. He gently washed the baby's small hands in the basin, then changed his diaper.

An hour later, when still no one appeared to take care of the prince, Peter laid him down in the crib for a nap.

"Oh, what am I going to do with you?" Peter sighed, stroking the peachy skin of the baby's cheek with the tips of his fingers. The prince yawned, his tiny nose wrinkling, pink tongue poking out between pink lips. Tiny eyelids fluttered sleepily, and Peter smiled.

"What's your name, hm?" he murmured softly, idly smoothing down the satin pillow underneath the baby's head. Peter lifted the corner of the pillow, and saw an ornate letter stitched into the frill with maroon thread.

"R…" Peter whispered curiously. "I wonder what that stands for? Something dashing, I imagine," he chuckled.

With a little whimper of fatigue, the baby turned his head to the side and closed his eyes.

Peter stayed with him until he could hear the infant's breathing become steady and slow. He tucked the blanket snugly around the prince. For awhile, Peter watched the small chest rise and fall peacefully, and was reminded of Lucy, when she was first born. How he had loved to sing her to sleep…

There, in the frail warmth of the nursery, Peter finally found his comfort. For, as always, Peter needed to love, just as a flower needs the sun to bloom.

When a nurse finally arrived, late in the afternoon, Peter found himself loathe to leave.

………………………

…………………..

Miraz was sitting at his desk, talking with Sopespian, when Peter entered. An enormous hound, the king's pet, was resting at Miraz's feet. Glozelle, silent and still, was standing off to the side. The two men seemed to be arguing, gesturing angrily, but stopped abruptly when they saw Peter.

"You sent for me, your majesty?" the boy said quietly, head bowed, face listless.

"Ahh, yes," Miraz replied, looking up at him. "We will discuss this later," the king said to Sopespian, nodding curtly. Sopespian huffed irritably, chagrined at being dismissed, but he swept a portion of the papers from the desk and started to leave the room.

"I will leave you alone with the king, then," he said, as he brushed by the boy on his way out. The door closed behind him.

Miraz did not acknowledge Peter immediately, but continued to pore over the documents on his desk.

Peter's eyes were left to wander about the room, and he studied the hound curiously. Its fur was thick and gray, and its eyes were bright and yellow.

Quite suddenly, as if there were an unseen threat in the room, the dog rose to its feet and bared its fangs, growling. Its hair stood on end and it arched its back, moving backwards to cower against its master's legs.

"Your hound resembles a wolf, my king," Peter remarked casually, cool blue eyes resting on the beast.

"Yes," said Miraz distractedly, busy glancing over a map that was dotted with red and blue ink markers. "Baron was bred from a female wolf and one my father's finest hounds. I raised him from a pup."

The king looked concernedly down at the fidgety animal. Baron was shaking and whining, belly pressed low to the rug, snapping at the air with his teeth.

"What's the matter with you?" Miraz muttered, running a hand through the dog's fur. Baron let out a high-pitched whine, almost a howl, and nearly threw himself against the king's boots.

"Baron! Sit!" the king commanded sharply as the dog continued to twitch, shuddering from some unseen fear. Glozelle glanced suspiciously over at Peter, who had been calmly watching the entire time.

The king stood, shaking the large hound off, and turned to Peter, "I hear from the physicians that you are recovering nicely," he said.

"Yes, sire," Peter said softly, head still bowed.

"No more pains? Any dizzy spells?"

"No, sire."

Miraz stepped closer to him, and laid a hand on Peter's pale cheek. The boy fought not to flinch at the feel of cold metal, remembering that it was the same hand that struck the queen.

"You are still pale," the king said.

As his master touched the boy, Baron let out a howl from behind Miraz, and rushed forward, bumping into the king's legs.

"General," Miraz snapped, annoyed, as if the outburst were Glozelle's fault. He withdrew his hand from Peter's face and shot a commanding look at Glozelle.

"Perhaps I should take him outside," Glozelle spoke up, and the general managed to lay hold of the frightened animal and dragged it out the door, giving Peter yet another suspicious look as he passed.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room was quiet. Peter and Miraz were left alone.

"Come, sit," the king said genially, gesturing to a nearby chair. Obediently, Peter sat, and Miraz did the same from across the desk. The king poured out two small glasses of liquor from a nearby decanter, and pushed one of them in Peter's direction.

Silently, Peter took it and downed the liquid in one gulp, wincing at the burn but relishing the warm numbness that came afterwards.

"I've heard what happened today," the king said, idly playing with his own glass. "That you looked after the prince in my queen's… _absence_."

"I'm sorry if I've done you offense, sire," Peter said, looking down in his lap, feeling the alcohol working its way into his body. _A different type of poison…_

"No," sighed the king. "There is no offense on your part, though entering the royal nursery without permission is usually a grave transgression indeed. I suppose," Miraz hesitated slightly, "that I should offer you my thanks. My wife… has been troubled lately, and she acts in a way most unbefitting for a queen and a mother."

The king sighed again, and drank down the contents of his glass, quickly reaching for the decanter to pour another one.

"And I," he continued, "as a king, am in no position to care for a baby."

"Why not?" Peter asked dryly.

"These are times of war," the king said, and Peter thought he looked so weary. "I have no time for such things while bearing the burden of my kingdom. That is why I offer you my thanks, boy. With the queen… being as she is, the prince might have been quite neglected if you had not stepped in."

Peter smiled wanly. "You must not thank me, your majesty, for I could have done no less. A child should never be left alone, without parents. Especially a Crown Prince... I wonder how Caspian felt, growing up without a father?"

Miraz's eyes hardened instantly, and he downed his second glass. "Are you mocking me?" the king demanded.

"No, my lord," Peter said calmly. "I would never speak my dead lover's name in jest-"

"You will not speak his name at all!" the king snapped, slamming his glass back onto the desk.

Peter lowered his eyes demurely, but spoke up again. "I only meant that you're son is young, sire, and he needs a father. Children, whether princes or peasants, are so very precious. Would you, with your wars and your courtly duties, condemn your own son to the same lonely childhood your nephew grew up with?"

Miraz snorted, and poured himself another drink. "Have you become my son's nursemaid, Peter?" he scorned, and Peter did not reply.

With a bitter-sounding noise, the king slumped back into his chair. They were silent for awhile, and Peter studied Miraz with curious eyes. Just as the queen had seemed different, so did the king. He seemed so much older now, and so tired, almost as if Miraz had lost some of his majesty.

"I once thought," the king spoke up, his voice slightly slurred, "that once I had a son, an heir, all my problems would be over. My rule, my dynasty, legitimized. Now, it seems I have more problems than ever, and my son becomes just another burden."

"Will you go to war again, then, my king?" Peter asked, glancing at the marked map on the desk between them.

Miraz saw where Peter was looking, and quickly reached over to sweep the map off the desktop.

"Yes," Miraz said, looking at Peter's troubled face. "But it is not your place to question such things. You are in my household now, and the Narnian Resistance is no longer your concern."

The king cleared his throat and spoke his next words haltingly. "My son, however… The queen, in her folly, has dismissed almost all her nurses, claiming that she must take care of the baby herself. But she… is ill-fit to be a mother. My wife is often impatient, and neglectful. And I, I fear, am also quite unable to care for a baby. Peter…"

"I understand," Peter said, nodding. "But you must promise me protection, sire. It is not my place to take care of the queen's son, should she wish otherwise. She might try to take measures against me… again."

"Understood," said the king, and though he didn't speak it aloud, Miraz's eyes shone with gratitude.

……………………………..

Peter was in the tub that night, when the door to his bathroom opened. He didn't bother turning around or looking up, assuming it was Miraz. Only the king would be so intrusive as to invade his privacy this way.

"I'll be done in a moment," Peter said, hating how his voice shook, echoing loudly in the room.

The boy braced his hands on either side of the tub and lifted himself up, shivering as the water on his skin cooled.

"By all means, take your time," said a silky voice, which was definitely not the king's.

Peter looked up sharply, to see Sopespian standing brazenly before him, smiling amusedly.

"What are you doing?!" Peter cried out, nearly falling over himself as he scrambled out of the tub, rushing over to a nearby rack of towels. His face flushed red with embarrassment and anger as he yanked out the biggest one he could find and covered himself.

"Looking at you, right now," drawled the Telmarine lord, stepping around the tub with an almost pleasant smirk.

"Don't come any closer!" Peter warned, shrinking back, hands frantically tying the towel securely around his waist.

"Tch," scoffed Sopespian. "No need to be modest, boy. I've seen it all before, or have you forgotten? Though I must say," he raked his eyes lewdly over Peter's naked torso, "you look a great deal better now, than when you were hanging from your chains in Miraz's dungeons."

"I don't know what your business is here," Peter said angrily, arms wrapped around himself protectively, "but the king will hear of it if you try anything with me!"

Sopespian laughed at this, and his cheery voice was all the more eerie, magnified by the marble walls of the bathroom.

"A courtesan," Sopespian said, "for that is what you are, should be all too willing to, ah, let me 'try something,' no?" He chuckled again.

"Get out," Peter said, glaring fiercely.

Sopespian merely smiled, and swept his eyes over Peter's body once again. Coming closer, he rudely reached out and brushed his fingers over a sore on Peter's face, near his mouth, grinning when the boy winced.

"The ravages of the queen's poison," Sopespian commented mildly. Peter furiously slapped his hand away.

"She is quite the clever woman, Prunaprismia," he continued smoothly. "Used quite a deadly mix of poisons on you, she did. It must have been very painful. Would you like to know what nearly killed you?"

"No. Get out," Peter repeated, frustrated and a little intimidated when Sopespian didn't budge. "I don't know what you're playing at, sir, but I won't have any part in it."

"Henbane," Sopespian said, as if Peter hadn't spoken. "Poison toadstools. Powdered skin of the river-frogs. The leaves of the hellebore. All at once, too. It's a miracle you've survived."

At these words, the man reached into his robe, and pulled out a paper packet of some sort. "Here is her poison," he said, holding it up, and Peter could see that the packet contained a bitter-smelling brown powder. "I've managed to sneak it out from the queen's stores. Could come in handy, don't you think? Here, take it."

Peter stared at the paper envelope in Sopespian's hand, but made no move to touch it. He let out a breath he had been holding, and looked up at the man distrustfully.

"Why are you giving this to me?" Peter demanded, voice calmer but still suspicious.

Sopespian chuckled again, as if amused. "You hate the king, do you not?" he drawled. "He, who rules over your beloved Narnia. He, who slaughtered your people." False sweetness was oozing from every word he spoke.

Sopespian moved around to Peter side, to whisper into the boy's ear. "He, who condemned you to tortureand pain. The man who forced himself on you, who continues to force himself on you, night after night."

"He doesn't force me," Peter protested, as Sopespian's words washed over him like venom.

"Ahhh, yes, but you _hate_ it, don't you?" Sopespian hissed, and Peter shivered. "The king's touch is poisonous to you, and it leaves you feeling cold and broken, doesn't it? He killed your lover, the prince, and still, you must endure Miraz's touch."

Peter gasped softly, paling.

"Don't look so shocked, boy. The entire court knows that Caspian's death was no accident. Miraz is a murderer, this we both know."

Sopespian took one of Peter's limp hands, opening the boy's palm and placing the packet there, then closed Peter's fingers over it.

"You _hate_ him, don't you, boy?" said Sopespian.

"I… what are you-?"

"Just half of this would be enough to kill him," the man said, his voice so seductive in Peter's ears. "Just pour it into his wine, like the queen did to yours. Then, he dies. Ironic, no?"

Peter stared at the envelope in his hand. "M-murder the king?" he stammered.

"Revenge," said Sopespian smugly, "is not murder. Kill he king, boy, and you will be ridding us both of… an unpleasant nuisance."

Peter looked at him doubtfully, eyes narrowing. "Why do you wish the king dead?" he demanded, tightening his hand over the paper packet.

"Never mind that," Sopespian said. "The important thing is, _you_ want him dead." The man turned on his heel and left the bathing chamber, and Peter was left holding the poison in his hand, exhilarated and frightened.

What was he to do? "Revenge…"

……………..

…………………….

Caspian was awoken by Susan screaming Edmund's name. He jumped up from his sleeping roll, wincing when he jarred his injured shoulder. He immediately fumbled for his sword.

All around him, chaos was breaking loose. The Narnians were running around the camp, some with weapons, some carrying the injured. There were shouts of fury, of fear, and the ever-approaching sound of the Telmarine infantry, thunderously marching towards their camp.

"What's happening?" Caspian yelled to a passing faun, frantically buckling his sword to his belt.

"The eagles bring news that Miraz's army approaches! They march to attack our camp!" said the faun, before running off.

"Edmund! Lucy!" he heard Susan shout. She emerged from the frenzied throng, bow and quiver in hand. A look of utter relief came over Susan's face when she saw her siblings run up to her, both of them confused and frightened.

"Edmund, you must look after Lucy," she said, her voice fast and hard. "Lucy, stay close to Edmund. The Telmarines are coming, and we must retreat. Edmund, do you have your sword?"

The boy nodded wordlessly, his face pale, and Susan gave him a terse smile. She bent to hug Lucy briefly, then straightened quickly.

"Ironhoof!" Susan called over the din, and the centaur came galloping over, sword strapped to his back. "You must lead them south, and make sure they stay together. Let the birds fly before you, and keep the wounded and the young safe. Have our infantry guard the rear. Make haste, my friend."

The centaur nodded, then galloped away to rally the soldiers together. Lucy and Edmund, hand-in-hand, followed after.

As the camp readied to march, Caspian, as quickly as his injury would allow him, helped to load the wagons with supplies, helping the injured find mounts. He paused in his work when he saw Susan off to the side, fixing her helm on her head and strapping her quiver onto her back. There were others with her, Glenstorm, humans and fauns, and a gryphon, and they were all armed, as if ready for battle.

"What are you doing?" he cried, rushing over to her. "You cannot mean to fight them? Your troops are getting ready to retreat!"

"They won't make it if I don't buy them time," Susan snapped, and Caspian realized, with a cold feeling, what she was planning to do.

"This is madness," he said, arms held out pleadingly. "You will be running to your death! You can't take on the entire Telmarine army with just a handful of soldiers!"

She didn't reply, just continued to strap on her armor, mouth set in a grim line. She walked off briskly, calling directions and encouragement to her troops. There was no softness to her now, only fierce determination. Caspian looked into her face, and realized that she was ready to die for her people, and had been willing to die for a long time.

"Then let me go with you!" he called, running to catch up with her. "I'll ride with you."

"You are wounded," Susan said simply, not slowing her steps. "You can't be of any use to me in battle."

"Susan, this is suicide," Caspian said, and he grabbed her arm roughly, turning her around to look at him.

"It _isn't _suicide," she said impatiently, shrugging off his hand. "We can get away from them easily enough. I just mean to slow them down. Nothing will happen."

Caspian sighed at the stubbornness in her voice, but he couldn't help feeling impressed at her courage.

"Caspian, please," Susan said gently, laying a hand on the prince's shoulder. "I trust you, and I need you to look after Edmund and Lucy. You must go with the others."

Reluctantly, the prince nodded.

…………………………..

……………………..

With a shout, Susan struck the Telmarine soldier with her bow, and he fell. Quickly, she notched two arrows at once and fired them, unhorsing another enemy. Two of them charged her at once, yelling and waving their swords.

Drawing an arrow from her quiver, she ran forward and ducked under their swords, then spun around gracefully and stabbed one of them in the neck with her arrow. Twisting to avoid the other's sword, she notched the same arrow, tip red with blood, and shot the second soldier at close range.

Breathing heavily, she looked around in consternation. The Telmarines were too many, and they were bearing down on her small company faster than they could drive them back. Had the rest of her army had enough time to get away?

No time for thoughts. Drawing arrow after arrow from her quiver, she shot down all those in range with her deadly aim. Still, they marched forward, relentless. Her arms were getting tired, and her legs ached. The earth beneath her feet was trembling with the thunderous footsteps of the enemy.

"Glenstorm, we must retreat!" she called. The centaur was fighting ferociously with hoofs and sword, knocking down the enemy as if they were wooden dolls.

"There are too many!" Susan cried, desperation in her voice. "We have to fall back, now!"

From across the battlefield, Glenstorm gave her a terse nod of acknowledgement. Rearing back on his hind legs, the centaur bellowed out an order to retreat. The surviving Narnians of Susan's small troop dashed for the woods.

"Take my arm!" Glenstorm called, as he ran by her, limb outstretched.

"No! Head for the woods!" Susan shouted, shaking her head. "I will follow!"

As Glenstorm and the others ran off, she stayed behind for another moment, firing her arrows into the Telmarine ranks, hoping to take out as many of them as she could.

Susan spent her last arrow, then turned around to run for the trees.

She fled, lungs bursting with exertion, running to catch up with Glenstorm and the others. She could hear Miraz's men, shouting behind her, chasing after. It was an arrow that struck her, fired from one of their crossbows.

It hit her in the back, but glanced off her armor. Still the impact was enough to make her stumble, and she fell. Crying out, more in surprise than pain, she struggled to get up, hoping that the others would not be so foolish as to come back for her.

Her brief tumble turned out to be disastrous. Even as she got her footing, a horsed Telmarine charged towards her. She managed to duck the horse's hooves, and draw her own sword, but two more of them attacked her on foot.

Fighting for her life, Susan slashed wildly at her opponents, but they disarmed her, and she fell to the ground again, hard. The breath was knocked out of her as she landed on her back. Shaking her head to clear her vision, she saw one of them was bringing his battleaxe down on her neck and Susan squeezed her eyes shut, terrified that she was about to die.

"Stop!" someone shouted, and the blade stopped, just above her throat. She looked up, panting raggedly, realizing that tears had been falling down her cheeks.

It was General Glozelle, who had been the one on the horse, and it was he who had given the order. At his signal, they seized her and stripped her of her weapons, holding her upright with rough hands.

"Someone go send word to the king," said Glozelle, "that we have captured Susan Pevensie."

They cheered around her, and taunted her loudly, but Susan kept her head high and refused to speak. They were bending her arms back so far that it was excruciating, but she showed no pain.

The general dismounted, and walked towards her, gazing at his enemy with stern eyes.

"You are a prisoner of war now," he said, his tone without a hint of mockery. "If you come along quietly and give in to the king's demands, you may yet live. Refuse, and you will suffer."

Defiantly, Susan spat at him. Glozelle sighed and wiped his face. "Restrain her," he ordered, then turned around and left.

The soldiers closed in around her, leering and shouting, and Susan felt a fear greater than ever before, as she realized the danger she was in. There was no one to help her, and she was unarmed, one female among an entire army of men.

Violently, they pushed her to her knees, and she grunted in pain. Someone tore her dress from her shoulder. A soldier, grinning maliciously, walked up to her with a coil of rope.

As he bent down to bind her, however, the man suddenly keeled over with a cry. He slumped onto Susan, banging her face with his metal helm, and she could feel something warm and wet seeping onto her.

The man had been shot! The Telmarines shouted in surprise and turned over their dead comrade.

Before they could react, or draw their weapons, several more arrows whizzed through the air, and the men holding Susan down dropped away with cries of pain. She struggled out of their lifeless grips, and jumped to her feet just in time to see someone ride furiously towards her.

"Caspian!" she cried out in shock. The prince was riding on one of the Talking Horses, Rynelf's crossbow in hand, firing into the crowd.

"Duck, Susan!" he yelled, and she crouched low, covering her head with her arms. She heard him loose two arrows from the bow, and two men behind her fell to the ground.

There were shocked and outraged cries from the Telmarine troops as they recognized their prince. Many of them hesitated to attack, and Caspian used their distraction to gallop straight into their ranks. They scattered, as the horse beat furiously at them with his hooves.

"Here!" Caspian shouted, leaning out of his saddle with his arm outstretched. As he rode past, Susan grabbed the prince's arm and jumped up, using the momentum to swing her leg over so that she was seated behind him. Nearly sobbing with relief, she wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Run, friend! Run!" Caspian shouted to the horse, and the faithful beast galloped towards the woods, spurred on by fear.

The Telmarines overcame their shock soon enough, and gave chase. Recovering from her fright, Susan reached over and grabbed the crossbow from Caspian's hand.

Leaning back, she aimed and fired the bolts at their pursuers, picking them off.

After a wild chase through the night, which seemed to last forever, they finally shook the Telmarines from their tail.

Heaving from exertion, the horse finally stopped, unable to go on. With a groan, Caspian slid from the horse's back, and reached up to help Susan, who was trembling and pale. She ignored his outstretched arms, and dismounted herself, but only made it a few steps before falling over and retching from exhaustion.

"Here," Caspian said, rushing over and covering her shaking body with his cape. "Susan, we must walk. The Narnians are far ahead of us, and we have to catch up to them by daybreak."

"Edmund and Lucy," Susan gasped out, clinging to Caspian's arm. "Are they safe?"

"They are safe," Caspian said comfortingly. He drew her arm across his shoulders to help her stand, but instead, she pulled him into a shaky embrace.

"You came back for me," she murmured, her sweaty forehead against his neck.

"Of course I did," he replied, hand against her back. "Edmund would never forgive me if I hadn't."

…………………..

………………………….

"The Resistance is falling apart," Miraz told Peter, as they sat together. It was the king's own private dining chamber, and they were alone. Such an honor, to be allowed into the king's own rooms, was great indeed.

"The Narnians know they cannot win this war, and they flee from my army. Soon, this kingdom, this land, will be in my control, and there will be no more rebellion, no more fighting."

They were sharing a cold meal, squab and raw vegetables, with plenty of wine. Miraz was talking animatedly between elegant bites, while Peter sat pale and silent, food untouched.

"Your countrymen will fall. The Narnians will succumb."

Peter was eyeing the king's wine cup, ignoring Miraz's words. They were alone, and he had a chance. If he administered the poison now, Miraz would be dead before anyone found out.

"But you, Peter, _you _are here with me, and you will have my protection. There is nothing left for you outside of these castle walls, not anymore. Give me your devotion, and you will have anything you want, anything that is in my power to give."

The candles were flickering, and Miraz's face seemed almost soft in this light. His dark eyes seemed moist.

"Your cup is half empty, my lord," Peter said. "I will fill it for you." The boy stood and took the king's cup, walked around the table to a nearby shelf, which contained Miraz's favored liquors.

Peter chose a bottle, uncorked it, and splashed the liquid into the cup. Then, behind the king's back, Peter took Sopespian's packet of powder from his sleeve and shook half of it into the wine.

Quickly hiding the packet again, Peter took the cup in slightly trembling hands and gently shook it, swirling the liquid around.

He brought it back to the king, who took it with a nod, and Peter sat down across the table again. He made a half-hearted attempt to pick at his food, heart thumping nervously in his chest as he waited for Miraz to take his drink.

Instead, Miraz set down the cup, reached over the table, and took Peter's hand in his own. The boy started slightly, eyes widening at the contact.

"Peter," the king said softly. "Caspian is gone. Your lover is dead. You were devoted to him, I know, but why not show the same to me? He was a prince. _I_ am a king. What could he have given you, that I cannot give, tenfold?"

Peter stared up at the king, unsure of what to say.

"For so long, you have been chilled by melancholy. Would you not smile again, fair boy?"

"I-if my lord wishes it," Peter stammered.

In response, Miraz smiled approvingly and lifted the goblet to his lips. Peter followed the movement with his eyes.

_He deserves to die… _But why was Peter's heart suddenly filled with such dread? Each heartbeat seemed lengthened, as the king wrapped his lips around the rim of the cup.

_He deserves to die. He took away my mother and father… He took away Caspian…_

Still, when Peter saw the wine touch Miraz's open mouth, his resolve shattered, and he _couldn't_ see the king as the evil creature who had caused him so much suffering. Instead, he saw… a man. A father, a husband, a _man_ that tried so hard to be feared.

"Wait!" he shouted, and lunged across the table. With a sweep of his arm, Peter knocked the goblet from Miraz's hand. It fell, clattering, to the floor, and the poisoned wine spilled over the carpet, staining it like blood.

The king stared at Peter, droplets of wine clinging to his beard, and a suspicious scowl stole over his face.

Peter gasped and drew back, himself surprised at his impetuous action.

"I…" he breathed, but his words died on his lips. The king frowned, eyes narrowing. For a few terrible seconds, they stared at each other from across the table.

Then, quickly, Peter darted around the table and practically threw himself at the king, slamming his mouth against Miraz's, trying to use the pretense of lust to cover up his actions.

As Miraz moaned in pleasant surprise, Peter opened his lips and allowed Miraz to slide a heated tongue into his mouth. As Miraz sucked eagerly on Peter's tongue, the boy opened the king's shirt with shaking fingers.

Crying out softly in what he hoped would be taken for pleasure, Peter straddled Miraz's waist and heaved himself onto the king's lap.

He fumbled with the ties to Miraz's trousers and buried his face in Miraz's neck to hide a grimace of disgust. Everything was hot, and their clothing was bunched up around them, and Peter felt himself becoming strangely impassioned by the frenzied movements.

The king seemed utterly pleased. With satisfied-sounding groan, Miraz ran his ringed hands up and down Peter's heaving back, and took the boy in his arms. Peter made a small noise when Miraz kissed him deeply, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other at his waist. His mouth was so hot and insistent…

Breaking from the kiss, the king ran his mouth over Peter's jaw and neck. To his shame and horror, Peter actually moaned, his body responding helplessly to Miraz's ministrations.

"So sweet," the king moaned against his skin. Ringed hands were pulling at Peter's clothes, and the boy, overwhelmed by sensations he thought were long-lost, let the king remove his shirt.

Miraz was pushing at his hips, and everything grew so hot, and heavy. Peter was panting, and there was a flurry of confusing movements. He was aware that he was being made to stand, and the next thing he knew, Miraz had pushed him gently, face-first, over the table. The king, pressed hotly against his back, reached around to undo Peter's trousers.

It all happened so quickly. Peter was cold as Miraz stripped him with quick, precise movements, then he grew hot again as the king kissed him everywhere, every inch of his body.

Peter heard himself moaning passionately, his flushing body shuddering at such intimacy. It had been so long since he had felt a loving touch, and his body welcomed every caress, every stroke. He couldn't bring himself to hate it, he just _couldn't_.

Through a daze of pleasure, Peter felt Miraz spreading his thighs apart. There were touches, everywhere, and it felt so hot. There was a sharp pain as the king entered him, and Peter sobbed out, pressing his cheek to the cold wood, shivering, shivering.

Then, it didn't hurt anymore as Miraz caressed his trembling back, moving ever so gently inside of him. With hands braced against the table for support, struggling to stand on trembling legs, Peter cried out as the king embraced him and began to thrust.

Bathed in his own sweat, with the clinking of silverware to accompany their heated moans, Peter rushed into an orgasm, sobbing desperately as he did so. His eyesight grew hazy, and his limbs slack as Miraz continued to rock against him in steady strokes, until the king pulled out and climaxed between his thighs.

Moaning heavily, Miraz hugged Peter close, and buried his face between the boy's shoulder blades. Peter felt sore, but the tremors of pleasure running through his body were wonderful, yet awful at the same time.

"You are shaking," the king murmured.

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…………………

Trembling violently, Peter fell to his knees before the pristine marble toilet, and vomited. It was an hour later, and he had managed to escape back to his own chambers, locking himself in the bathroom.

Hot tears of shame were running down his face as he shivered and heaved, panting harshly. Shame at what he'd _almost_ done, shame that he _didn't_, shame at the disgusting act he had committed instead, and such terrible shame that he'd _enjoyed_ it.

"_Why?_" Peter wailed, beating at the floor with his fist, weeping uncontrollably. "Oh, why? Why couldn't I do it?"

The smell of sex on his rumpled clothes drove him past the point of anguish. His mind suffering, and his body aching in the afterglow, Peter made the rashest decision of his life.

If he couldn't destroy Miraz, he would destroy himself instead. Panting and wiping tears from his face, he staggered to his feet and stumbled out. There was a fire in the hearth, and Peter knelt before it.

Retrieving the paper packet from his sleeve, Peter tore it open shook the powder into his hand. The color was poisonous brown, and Peter made a fist, trying to build his resolve. He wanted to die… He felt so awful, so wracked with guilt, that he felt like he _was_ dying.

Just as he was about to shove the whole lot into his mouth, something extraordinary happened.

The fire in the hearth suddenly came alive in a blaze of orange and gold. As Peter fell back with a cry, the fire rose out of the hearth, as if it had a mind of its own. A lion's head, at once terrible and magnificent, appeared. Its mane was wreathed in flame, and it threw open its maw and _roared_.

The heat was blistering, and the lion was so bright, that Peter thought he would go blind. With a shout of pure terror, he flung the only thing he had in his hand, the poison, at the terrifying apparition.

The powder instantly incinerated as it touched the living fire, and an acrid black smoke came from the remains. Almost immediately, the Fire Lion disappeared, melting away and shrinking back into the hearth until it was no more. Everything was silent, except for the gentle crackling of the fireplace.

Peter, gasping and clutching at his heart with his now-empty hand, sat down rather ungracefully on the floor. He was frightened out of his mind. Anxiously, he looked around the room, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He stared hard into the fireplace, but there was nothing but the merry dancing of perfectly ordinary flames.

Had he imagined it all? But it had seemed so real, and his face was still flushed from the heat of the unnatural blaze. And there, scattered in pieces on the carpet, were the charred remains of the poisonous powder.

……………

,………..

Notes: so, what do you think? too much for one chapter? please, please leave a review! thanks to everyone who's reading this, and sorry it took so long to update!


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 19:

It was late at night, and the castle's hallways were cold. Peter wandered through the dark, thin sheet wrapped around his shaking shoulders. His bare feet were freezing on the floor, and he shivered. Terror and unbearable loneliness had driven him from his room, unable to sleep.

Somehow, he made it to the door of the king's chambers, the rooms he had been in such a hurry to vacate only a few hours ago.

"You may not enter," said the guards, and they barred his way.

"P-please," Peter entreated, and he clasped his hands together, trying to warm them. His teeth were chattering and his face was pale.

"The king is not to be disturbed," they told him, and would not let him pass.

"Let him in," came a deep, sonorous voice from within. The guards withdrew at the king's command, and held the door open for Peter. Still shivering, the boy went in.

The king's bed was majestic and dark, hung with deep blue draperies. Miraz was sitting up amidst the pillows, looking at him. Words failed Peter as he looked at the king, remembering all that had transpired that night. He couldn't speak, and his lips were trembling. The boy clutched the sheet tighter around his thin shoulders and took a tentative step forward.

Silently, Miraz regarded him, then drew back a portion of the quilts. Nodding hesitantly, Peter walked over and climbed in. It was no warmer, even as the king flung the comforter over him.

"I knew you would come to me," said the king, and his voice sounded smug as he engulfed Peter in possessive arms.

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"How did you get this?" Caspian whispered, tracing his finger lightly over the scar on Susan's neck as she lay beside him. The small campfire illuminated the sheen of sweat on her face, her neck, and her skin seemed to glow like a pearl. Her raven hair spread out around her head, strands of it mixing with the dead leaves and the frost on the ground.

"Same way you did," she replied in a voice that was still breathless from exhaustion. With pale fingers that tapered elegantly, she touched a similar mark on his neck. It was a thin line, a faint scar that ran across his jugular.

Caspian shivered as he remembered the blade of knife, and the White Witch.

"I heard her voice in my head, just as you did," Susan said softly. Her bosom rose and fell with each breath, and her blue eyes were half lidded. "She offered me my father back. She looked into my eyes and called me fair, and gentle."

"And did you succumb?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Believe me, I tried to. I was rescued, of course, but before that, I _wanted_ her and all her promises."

It was cold, but the air between them felt heavy and hot. He could smell her hair, the warmth of her skin, and the tension between them was palpable.

They were silent after that confession, and spoke no more. It had been hours since they had escaped from the Telmarines, and after running for most of the night, all three of them had collapsed, exhausted. Caspian had made a small fire, and they had decided to rest.

They slept next to each other on the frozen ground that night, huddling close to the Talking Horse for warmth.

They set out early the next day, and bade the horse to run ahead, to seek out the Narnians. They walked through the woods, carefully and fearfully listening for any noises of their pursuers. Luckily, there were none. They slipped often on the frost-covered rocks, and were forced to hold on to each other for support, Caspian's arm around her waist, and her hand on his shoulder.

It was nearing midday when Susan stopped abruptly, nearly causing Caspian to bump into her.

"What is it?" he asked, looking around warily.

"I hear someone," she whispered, nodding towards their left. "Give me your sword. I've lost mine."

"No, I'll take a look," he said gallantly, stepping forward and drawing his sword, and Susan scowled at him. There was a rustling noise nearby and the prince approached cautiously, blade at the ready, poised for attack.

The noise grew louder and louder and Caspian signaled for Susan to be silent. Someone was approaching.

All of a sudden, a person jumped out of the nearby foliage and Caspian tackled him, even as Susan shouted, "No, don't!"

There was a scuffle and Caspian emerged victorious, holding his blade at the stranger's throat with one hand and the collar of his shirt with the other.

"Get off me!" Edmund complained, shaking Caspian's arm off.

"What were you doing, sneaking up on us?" the prince demanded, giving him a shake, angry at being startled.

"I _wasn't_ sneaking," Edmund snapped, and shoved Caspian out of the way. Spotting Susan, he ignored the prince and ran into her open arms.

"Edmund, you wicked boy," she cried, hugging him to her. "Why are you out here all by yourself? Didn't I tell you to stay with the others? Who's looking after Lucy? You could've been killed!" She fought the urge to box his ears as she fretted over him.

"Glenstorm said you'd been captured," Edmund sniffled, refusing to let go. "Caspian said he'd come fetch you, but I thought…. Well, what if he couldn't find you?"

"So you thought you'd come and fetch me yourself?" Susan said disbelievingly. "Oh, Edmund, what were you thinking, walking into the woods alone? Haven't I taught you any sense?"

"I wanted to see you!" he cried out, looking up at her with moist eyes that were half-angry, half-relieved, and whatever reproach she was about to make died on her lips.

"Oh, Lamb," she sighed, and pressed him to her, kissing the top of his dark head almost desperately. "Well, come on. We have to get back."

Taking Edmund's hand into hers, Susan started walking again and Caspian was left to trail behind them rather awkwardly.

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The morning sun was bright and beautiful, taking on a warm glow as it filtered through the white draperies of the nursery.

The baby was quietly cooing in the crib as Peter hovered over him, and Peter was smiling and smiling. He dangled a stuffed toy above the child, holding it just in reach, laughing softly as the baby batted at it with chubby arms.

"You are growing strong," he said.

At midday, the same maid arrived with the prince's bottle, and Peter fed the baby. Afterwards, he wrapped the prince in many blankets and went out for a walk in the gardens.

"Robert?" he mused, kissing the baby's forehead as he strolled through the beds of winter roses. Peter eyed the maroon "R" monogrammed on the baby's blankets. "Roger? Randolph? How silly of me, it's probably something more exciting, and Telmarine, of course. But the only Telmarine name I can think of is 'Rynelf.'"

The baby made a whining noise, like a kitten mewing, and Peter thought the prince must be tired. He stopped to rest under a cherry tree, holding the baby securely and lovingly in his arms. Fancifully, he imagined that the prince looked a bit like Caspian, with his dark eyes. Well, of course the baby _would_ look like Caspian. His lover was the prince's first cousin, after all.

Thinking of Caspian made his heart ache, and Peter quickly wiped at his eyes, sniffling a bit. "I wonder if Caspian would have liked you," he said sadly. "I wish… oh, how I wish…"

The cloying scent of the winter roses filled the air, and Peter remembered how Caspian would walk with him in the gardens, hand-in-hand. With a shiver, he realized that he had chosen _that_ particular tree to sit under, where they had loved to rest during their dalliances together.

"Let's go back inside," he said nervously, standing and holding the baby tight. "There are too many ghosts here."

Later, when Peter, with his fingers white with talcum powder, was giving the baby a nappy change that the queen walked in. She appeared so silently, almost gliding into the room like a ghost, that Peter was startled.

"Y-your majesty!" he stammered, eyes growing even wider at her appearance. It was the first time he had ever seen her wear white, and it was her dressing gown.

The queen's hair was unkempt, her face pale and unwashed. The gown was slipping off one shoulder, but she seemed uncaring. Dark eyes were staring blankly at him, looking straight through him. She resembled a wraith with how gaunt she appeared, and Peter was frightened.

Without speaking a single word, she walked over to the empty rocking chair in the corner of the room. She sat, and bowed her head, hands limp in her lap.

Rather confused at her behavior, Peter called out to her again, but she remained mute, staring at nothing, bloodless lips moving but making no sound.

Gathering up the baby in his arms, Peter walked cautiously over to her, thinking she might want to hold her child.

"Your son has missed you, your majesty," he coaxed softly, trying to catch her eye. She lifted her head up slightly and looked at him, but her expression was blank. Mechanically, she lifted her arms, and Peter handed over the prince. A faint smile stole over her face as she cradled her son to her breast.

However, the baby started crying; perhaps she was holding him wrong. At the sound, the queen looked shocked and let her arms go lax. The swaddled figure fell into her lap and started sliding off.

With a gasp, Peter lunged forward to catch the child, and barely managed to grab him before the prince hit the floor, head-first.

Clutching the wailing infant to his chest, Peter backed away from the queen, looking horrified.

Prunaprismia looked paralyzed, her arms still held out in a cradle, her face pale. Peter could see her shaking. Wordlessly, she stood. As Peter watched in bewilderment, the queen walked out of the room without giving him or the child a second glance.

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Edmund could hear two of the mice arguing about who would bring the Telmarine hostage his meal.

"I did it yesterday," one of them groused.

"Perhaps, but I've been caring for him and guarding him for the past week," said the other, whiskers twitching in annoyance. "And a fine bore he is, too, always complaining about his bed being too hard, or his meals too scarce."

"Well, I don't see why she insists on keeping him," replied the first, referring to Susan. "He certainly hasn't told us anything useful, and the Telmarines haven't asked for him back. Truly, that man's been nothing but trouble since the day we captured him."

"It _has_ gotten worse lately, hasn't it? With us on the run, it's been more and more difficult to keep an eye on him and an even bigger chore to take care of him. I don't understand why we don't just set him loose, or put him to work for the rest of us."

"He's a Telmarine, you fool! Let him out of his chains and he'll murder the lot of us while we sleep!"

"Well _I'm_ not bringing it to him. You do it."

Edmund had been listening to their conversation, picking unhappily at a piece of dry bread. Lucy was dozing lightly on his shoulder and he shook her awake.

"Gentlemen," the boy called out, and the two mice immediately stopped arguing. "I can bring it to him. Just give it to me." He held out his hand, and the mice were more than happy to push the bowl of gruel into his grasp. They scampered away rather quickly.

"Edmund?" Lucy said, blinking sleepily up at him as her brother stood to walk to over to where Lord Arlian was being guarded by a stern-looking dwarf. "Susan says you're not to speak to the man."

"Susan wants things to get done, doesn't she?" he said, a bit crossly, and walked over to the hostage.

"I can look after him," Edmund said to the dwarf, but the guard looked at the prisoner suspiciously and stood his ground.

"I was given orders not to take my eyes off him," the dwarf grumped. "Who knows what he'll try, if we let our guards down?"

Lord Arlian laughed at this. "What can I possibly do?" he scoffed, motioning to the manacle around his leg that was attached to a stake in the ground. "I am your prisoner, after all, and I am helpless."

The dwarf simply growled at him, and kept a tighter grip on his axe. "Best you give him his food lad, and be on your way. No telling what the Telmarine's planning."

Edmund sighed and proceeded to untie the man's hands, then gave him the bowl of gruel. He was all too aware of Arlian watching him the whole time the man was sipping at it.

Unexpectedly, there was some small commotion about a small fire, and the dwarf was called away for a minute. Lord Arlian took full advantage of that minute.

"I hear she nearly died in the last battle," he whispered to Edmund, who looked at him warily. "How many battles do you think your sister can win, before she falls?"

"What are you saying?" Edmund asked, and found himself a bit too eager to listen to what the man had to say.

"Remember what I told you before? Well, the offer still stands. Free me, and I will make certain that the king grants you and your family a full pardon."

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The prince rifled through the maps and charts on Susan's table. His movements were almost frantic as he scanned through the many loose papers. Battle strategies, and letters. He was alone in the tent and there was no lamp lit, the darkness making it all the harder to find what he wanted.

Under a mound of quills, he found a detailed map, an outline of Miraz's castle, and Caspian quickly spread it out on the table, smoothing it out with his fingers. He squinted in the low light, trying to decipher it.

"Looking for something?" Susan said, stepping into the tent.

Caspian jumped at the sound of her voice, his hands fumbling. "No, no I was just…" he stammered.

Nonchalantly, Susan walked over to the table and picked up a match. She struck it and lit the lamp.

"Fumbling around in the dark?" she inquired, a small smile on her lips.

"I was just looking over a few things… nothing important," Caspian mumbled, as his hands kept messing through her papers.

"Caspian," she said softly, laying her hand over his wrist. He stilled, looking up at her.

"It won't work," Susan said, shaking her head slightly at the map of Miraz's castle. "You've said it yourself, it would be suicide to try and attack the castle."

"I know," Caspian sighed, frustrated, making a fist. "But, I can't help it. I dream about it, night after night." He looked up at her imploringly. "I keep thinking, keep _hoping_, that there must be some way, just _some_ way."

"Peter is my brother," Susan said, her voice ever so gentle, her eyes soft. "Who can love him better than I? But it's useless to do this, planning impossible things. We are in no position to lay siege, and the only way to help him is to endure."

"Endure?" Caspian uttered a dry laugh, and pulled away. Sighing as though his heart would break, he stepped away from her and buried his weary head in his hands. The regal lines of his shoulder were slumped. "Every day that we endure, so does he. I don't know what's happening to him. I don't even know if he is well."

"Even as we speak, Rynelf is riding for Miraz's castle," she soothed, and lay a hand on his arm. "He will be successful, and he will find us, and he will bring news of Peter. I'm sure of it."

"And what if Rynelf is caught? What then? Or worse, what if he brings bad news?"

"You must have more hope than that," she said sternly, and her fingers tightened over his arm. "What do we have, if not hope, Caspian? You can't help Peter by fretting like this. Help me, instead. With your help, we can win this battle, and the next. When we grow strong enough to take the castle, Peter will return to us, and he will be safe."

The prince smiled wanly at her words. "Thank you for your words," he said, looking at her gratefully. "You give me courage, Susan. Else, I'd have gone mad a long time ago."

He lay his hand over hers, and his touch lingered just a moment too long.

A frown creased her brow and she looked at him oddly for a moment, her blue eyes cool and unreadable. Then, in a second, she had stepped forward and embraced him. Before he could react, she was kissing him, her warm, soft lips pressing eagerly to his, thinly clothed breasts pressing into his chest.

He was startled for a minute, and his arms lay limply at his sides, but once he realized what was happening, Caspian immediately pushed her back by the shoulders.

"Susan, what are you doing?" he gasped, the flesh of his lips buzzing numbly.

"Do you think me beautiful?" she said, and her voice was musical and merry. She seized him by the front of his doublet and kissed him again, pressing her body to his.

"Mm-!" he cried out, tearing his mouth away and leaning backwards. "No, Susan, we mustn't! Have you gone mad?"

Nervously, he tried to turn away from her advances; she followed his every movement. Twining her hands into his hair, she kissed his face, his jaw, his neck. He tried to push her away, trying to keep himself from roughly shoving her off.

"Stop it!" he moaned, turning his face away.

"Peter isn't here now," she murmured against his neck, nuzzling affectionately. "Why not? I am here. You are here. You must be so lonely…"

Almost desperately, he seized her wrists and wrenched her away from him. "Have you gone completely out of your head?" he demanded, panting. "You want me to betray the very person I'm fighting to save?"

"Would it be so awful?" she sighed, and let herself go limp in his arms. The prince staggered back under the unexpected weight and tripped, falling to the ground. Instantly, she was on him and was pulling him to lie on top of her.

"Susan, what is wrong with you?!" he cried, trying to struggle free, but she held on tightly.

"Would it be so awful to betray him with me?" she repeated, digging her fingers into his arms.

"No!" he hissed, "But it wouldn't be right! How…how could you even think of such a thing? Does loyalty mean nothing to you?!"

Unfortunately, Edmund walked in at that moment, looking for Susan. To his startled eyes, it seemed as if Caspian was holding his sister captive, and she was struggling underneath him.

"Get off her!" Edmund yelled furiously and ran towards them, fists flying. Caspian barely had time to look up before the younger boy barreled into him, knocked him off of Susan and into the ground.

The prince never imagined that a skinny 11-year-old boy could hit that hard.

Caspian's ears were ringing as he blocked Edmund's fierce punches with his forearms. He didn't dare to hit back.

"Wait! It isn't how it looks!" Caspian tried to call out, but Edmund would hear none of it.

"I knew you were no good!" the boy shouted. "We never should have trusted you! Awful Telmarine-!"

"Edmund! Don't, oh dear, don't!" Susan was gasping, and Caspian saw her pull her brother back. She seemed to be struggling to breathe for some reason.

"Ouch…" Caspian groaned, rubbing at his bruised arms and chest. Edmund was still yelling ugly names at him, and Susan had her arms around his chest, restraining her brother. Gingerly, the prince sat up, and realized why Susan was sounding so out of breath.

She was laughing. Utterly baffled, Caspian stared at her.

"Edmund, do stop fighting," she said soothingly to her brother, who stilled in her arms but continued to glare at Caspian.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry," she said, seeing Caspian's angry, bewildered face. She let go of Edmund and stood, offering Caspian a hand up.

"Would you mind explaining yourself?" Caspian said stiffly, refusing her hand and getting to his feet.

"I'm sorry," she said again, and she did look quite apologetic. "It was wrong of me to do that, but I just had to _see_, you understand? I had to _know_."

She walked close to him, and he flinched back, not sure what she intended to do. However, she simply laid a chaste kiss on his cheek and grasped his arm like a friend.

"You _are_ very loyal," she said seriously, looking into his eyes, "and I know my brother is loved, and loved well."

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………………………….

Rynelf rode hard, through the woods. He spurned his horse onwards, praying that he wouldn't be seen by the Telmarine army that was camped out. His mind was so occupied with his mission that he never noticed that he strayed a bit too far to the west.

The third night that he had set out from Susan's camp, he lay down to sleep with a troubled heart. A stressed mind and a tired body made him slumber deeply, and the young soldier was unaware when the dark creature snuck up on him.

He never heard the swift death of his horse, nor the greedy sucking noises that came after, as the vampire drained the beast of its blood. He didn't stir, even when she crawled over him, and pinned him down.

Rynelf was dreaming of golden hair and blue eyes, and the soft, kind laughter of a nameless face. He awoke to a nightmare. There was a monster leaning over him, and her face was deathly pale. He tried to scream, but his voice died in his throat. He tried to move, but she held him down with superhuman strength.

"Handsome," she crooned, and bared her razor-sharp teeth at him.

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……………………….

"How is my son?" Miraz would ask every night as Peter sat on the edge of the bed, hands in lap.

"He is well, your majesty. You should see him," Peter would respond, as Miraz slid slow but eager hands up his back and over his shoulders. The king would always be satisfied with that answer, and there would be no more talk after that and even less rest.

But this night, the boy paused before offering hesitantly, "It is her majesty, the queen, that is troubled."

The warm pressure on Peter's back disappeared momentarily, and he heard Miraz sigh from behind him. "The queen has been ailing lately. It is no matter."

"But she seemed so… disturbed, my king."

"I said it's no matter." The king kissed Peter's neck, and started untying the laces to the boy's shirt.

"She is your wife," Peter said softly, brow wrinkled.

"Do not lecture me, boy," Miraz said warningly. "I get enough of reprimands and griping when I attend court. From you, I only expect comfort." He pushed Peter down to the bed, and soon, they were both naked and Miraz was kissing every inch of his heated body.

"You look so soft, and innocent," Miraz murmured huskily, as he slid his lips over Peter's thigh.

The boy was making breathy little noises, eyes closed and face flushed. His hair, the color of dark honey in the dim light, was spread out against the white satin of the pillow, surrounding his head like a halo.

The king groaned lasciviously as he pressed a rough kiss onto the smooth skin and drew Peter's leg over his shoulder. Dipping his head between Peter's trembling legs, Miraz pressed open-mouthed kisses to his navel, his pelvis.

"But you taste so… _decadent_."

Peter gasped as Miraz moved lower, and suddenly, the act became _too_ intimate, too intrusive. He cried out sharply, grabbing the sheets in tight hands as he felt the king's mouth on him.

"Mmmh… No!"

"What's the matter?" Miraz demanded, lifting his dark head.

"Please, sire. I…I…"

Miraz saw frantic blue eyes flicker towards the bedroom door.

"Please, please," Peter whispered, cheeks rosy with embarrassment. "Send them away. I can't… not with them there."

"The guards?" Miraz said, sighing impatiently, hands still roaming over Peter's body. "They are there for my protection. I can't dismiss them. Just pretend they're not there."

The king lowered his head back down between Peter's thighs, but the boy still gazed worriedly at the chamber door. He knew Miraz's personal guard, stationed outside, could hear each and every noise they made. After all, it was their function: to be ready to storm in at any sound of danger.

"Ahh!" Peter gasped, back arching off the bed as he felt Miraz's mouth engulf him, the moist heat almost unbearable. "Stop, please stop!" he moaned, and the king paused, probably sensing the desperation in Peter's voice.

Frowning, Miraz sat up. "What's the matter now?"

"I just… I can't. Please, send them away!"

In response, Miraz took one of Peter's ankles in his hand, brought the trembling limb up, and licked a wet stripe along the inside of the boy's leg, making Peter draw in a shaky breath.

"When you sleep in my bed, boy," the king murmured, mouthing the tender flesh, "you will deal with whatever I say, and I say to _ignore the guards_."

Miraz kissed his way up Peter's leg, lathering the skin with his tongue. The feel of Miraz's rough beard scraping against his skin, mixed with the soft wetness of Miraz's lips, was making heat pool into Peter's stomach.

Miraz grinned as he watched Peter tremble, the boy's hand clapped over pink lips to muffle his cries. Dropping the leg down to the mattress, the king took hold of Peter's hips and flipped him over roughly.

Miraz drew his breath in through his nostrils. The boy's skin was as smooth and pale as milk. The side of Peter's face was pressed to the pillow, and the king could see white teeth biting into petal-pink lips, plump and soft, as the boy whimpered and tried to contain his body's reactions.

He looked like porcelain in the moonlight, and his face was so innocent, so child-like, the golden locks falling into his eyes only accentuating his angelic looks.

"Peter!" the king groaned, his voice an exclamation of brutal passion, a guttural grunt. Miraz slumped forward and encircled Peter's waist with strong arms, pressing his bearded face into the back of the boy's neck. Firmly, Miraz pressed his hips forward and rubbed against Peter, not hard enough to penetrate but the movement made the boy open his mouth in a silent scream.

"But they'll hear!" Peter pleaded. The moisture in his blue eyes shimmered like crystal.

"Then you had better keep quiet, no?" Miraz whispered into Peter's ear as he bent over the boy.

Peter shivered when Miraz pushed fingers into him, and he bit down on his hand to stifle the sharp moan.

"I love how you look," the king moaned throatily, thrusting the tips of his fingers in and out of Peter's body. "Your eyes glisten, as if you were in pain, but the blush on your cheek shows your desire. Pleasure… pain…pleasure, pain." He accented each word with a plunge of his fingers, until Peter was shuddering beneath him, breathing growing more and more frantic.

When Miraz finally entered him, Peter was pushed forward with the force of the thrust, and he had to grab the sheets with both hands to steady himself. He uttered a choked-off cry and immediately bit down on his lips, humiliated by the idea that there were men outside the door, listening to his every sound.

Peter winced every time Miraz pushed in, but soon, a warm feeling overtook him as the king reached around and touched him. Soon, instead of making small noises of discomfort, Peter was moaning heavily through his hand.

It grew hot, so terribly hot, and everything was moist with sweat. Miraz was muttering something, and it was supposed to be endearing, but it sounded nasty and wrong to Peter.

Waves of hot pleasure were washing over him, and with a shrill cry, Peter shuddered and came. Clutching the pillow in his arms and lowering his forehead to the mattress, Peter panted desperately. Miraz was clutching his hips so hard it hurt, and though Peter's body was trembling with pleasant aftershocks, it was so uncomfortable to wait for the king to finish.

The king finally climaxed, after what seemed like hours, and Peter winced in discomfort when Miraz emptied himself before pulling out. The wet stickiness inside of him made him feel sick.

With a long, drawn-out groan, Miraz slumped down next to him, and drew Peter into his embrace. As his breathing evened, Peter lay his head on the king's arm.

The king murmured sleepily to him in the dark, and if Peter closed his eyes tightly, he could almost imagine that they were declarations of love.

"Lovely, sweet… wonderful…"

And in the dark, Peter clung to this frail dream, this illusion of love. He clung so tightly, afraid that his very breath would break the fantasy that finally, _finally_, he was being held dear.

……………

…………………..

Edmund watched his sister sit and comb out her hair. During the day, she was hard and frightening, a creature made of steel that was neither man nor woman. But at night, in the quietude of her tent, she became soft once more. Without her shell of armor, raven hair unbound and falling free, she became _Susan_ again, and Edmund had his sister back for awhile.

He watched silently as she slowly drew the comb through the dark locks, the wooden teeth parting and separating the inky waterfall into segments, only to have them melt back together again. Ivory colored fingers brushed through each strand, gently pulling at knots.

During the day, her movements were always quick, rigid, and efficient. It was almost strange to see her now, in so relaxed a pose. It seemed somehow _private, _as if this state was something that she only let herself see.

"Are you still angry?" she said softly, turning her head slightly to look at him, and Edmund almost felt indecent at having been staring at her. Her face was earnest, and she looked so vulnerable without her many war accoutrements.

"Edmund?"

Wordlessly, he walked over to her and stood behind where she sat. She lay the comb down in her lap and drew out a pair of scissors from a pouch around her waist. She held it out for him, and Edmund took them with fingers that were slightly shaking.

"How much?" he asked, touching her hair tentatively, as if it was some great treasure he was afraid to pluck. It was surprisingly warm in his hand, and so soft.

"As much as you want, dear," she said, smiling at him. "It's grown too heavy for my liking."

He took a portion of the dark silk between two fingers and slid them downwards, measuring until it was shoulder-length. Hesitantly, as if afraid he would hurt her, he brought the shears to her hair. With a _snip_, he cut through the fragile strands, and it almost pained him to do so, because it evoked old memories.

"Every hair on your head, every inch of skin, is as dear to me as my own, because they _came_ from me," his mother had once said, when a younger Susan had naively asked why she wasn't allowed to fight in the war. "Wars are ugly, because no one remains unharmed. Why would you harm the flesh your mother gave you? Why would you break my heart?"

_Snip, snip_ went the scissors, and Susan's dark tresses fell listlessly to the ground, dead and cold. As he cut, Edmund caught a single lock and hurriedly tucked it away in his clean handkerchief, and hid it in his pocket. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.

He handed the scissors back to her when he was done. He looked at her face, so serene and relaxed. She nodded at him, smiling again, and he knew she was dismissing him, as if she were a queen. He didn't mind, of course. She was _his_ queen, after all.

"Thank you, Edmund."

Instead of leaving, however, he knelt next to her stool and wrapped his arms around her waist, laying his head on her lap. So many nights after their mother had died, he would sit like this with Susan, her warm and steady body – so unyielding yet soft at the same time! – comforting him, easing a little boy's fears.

Edmund sighed and pressed his face into her skirt, ashamed to realize that his eyes were full. He heard her let out an impatient breath, and was so afraid that she would shake him off, tell him that she was tired and needed to rest, that she had duties in the morning.

Instead, she laid gentle hands in his hair and stroked him. He nearly wept at her touch, and for a second, if he closed his eyes tightly enough, he could almost imagine that they were back home again and he was _her_ Edmund, and she was _his_ Susan. His heart was beating so hard in his chest, and Edmund knew that at that moment, he would gladly kneel at her feet as a slave.

"What's the matter, Lamb?" she whispered. He merely shook his head and clung to her tighter.

"I-I don't want you to go to battle anymore," he said, his voice muffled by her lap. "Please, Susan? Don't go anymore. I _need_ you." Even as he spoke, he hated how boyish and desperate his words sounded, as if he were a toddler begging for candy.

"Oh, Edmund," she sighed. "Why can you never understand? I don't like this anymore than you do, but what kind of person would I be if I were to abandon all we hold dear? Why can't you see that I belong to this war now, and that the Resistance needs me?"

_Because every hair on your head, every inch of skin, every handful of flesh, every single drop of blood in your veins, is the same as my own. Mother gave the same to both of us, and she loved us. Why would you harm the flesh your mother gave you? Why would you break my heart? Oh, Susan, why can't you see that while you belong to the Resistance, _I _belong to _you?

"Edmund, I am your sister, not your mother. You do understand, don't you?"

He hated what she said, as if "sister" was somehow less than "mother." And what did it matter? Was she not sister, mother, friend, and guardian to him, all at once?

"I need you," he simply whispered again.

"You don't need me, dear. We can't afford to be children anymore, not in these times. You have been so brave, you know that? Can't you be brave for a little while longer?"

He let go of her then, and stood. He left her sitting there, fingers combing through her hair.

"When did you grow so cold?" he wondered, as he left her tent.

………………….

…………………..

Cornelius' cell was dark and damp, and Peter had to kneel on the dirty floor to reach between the bars, for the old professor was too tired and malnourished to stand. Cornelius coughed often in the dank air of the dungeons.

"I wish there was something I could do," Peter whispered sadly, holding the Doctor's manacled hands between his own, trying to warm the clammy skin.

Cornelius smiled through weary eyes. Peter noticed that the Doctor somehow seemed naked, more vulnerable without the spectacles.

"All you can do now is take care of yourself."

"I'm not the one you should be worrying about, Doctor. Are you alright? Have they been mistreating you?"

"On the contrary," said Cornelius with a rather stern frown. "_I _am not the one _you_ should be worrying about."

The Doctor reached out and brushed Peter's cheek with his fingers.

"Your hands are cold. Your cheek is pale. You look positively anemic, and so very thin. You are not looking after yourself, Peter, and you're letting yourself waste away."

Peter laughed sadly. "What would be the point? Caspian is gone. The Resistance is weakening. Narnia will fall under Miraz's rule. My sisters, my brother… What does it matter anymore?"

"We must have hope-" the Doctor said, only to break off into a hacking cough, which shook his entire body. Peter looked on helplessly from outside the cell as Dr. Cornelius suffered.

"We must have hope that the prince is alive, and will come back to aid us."

"Caspian is dead," Peter said, with a tremor in his voice.

"I don't believe it," said Cornelius stubbornly. "He may yet have survived. Hope, Peter. There is always hope."

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Peter whispered, and shining tears fell from his face. "I'm afraid I've lost hope a long time ago."

……………

Notes: Thanks so much to everyone who's reading! Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 20

Edmund was talking to the Telmarine hostage again. Lucy could hear their hushed whispers in the dark as she lay by the campfire, feigning sleep. She struggled to hear what they were saying over the nighttime noises of the camp, but she could only catch broken sentences here and there.

After a while, she could hear Edmund's returning footsteps, how he was trying to be quiet as he walked back to the campfire.

"You were talking to _him_ again," said Lucy rather reproachfully, sitting up and looking at him. He looked startled for a moment then just gave her a patronizing look.

"Go back to sleep," said Edmund, sitting down next to her.

"Edmund, please tell me…"

"It's nothing, Lucy. Just go back to sleep, alright?"

"_Edmund_." She crossed her arms. "You're always whispering to the Telmarine man. You talk when you think no one's looking. You're planning something, I know it."

"You're imagining things," he scoffed, grabbing a stick and poking at the campfire. She huffed when Edmund refused to speak, just sat staring into the orange flames. Lucy lay back down on the frosty ground, drawing the blanket tightly around herself. It was cold and she shivered.

Despondently, she stared into the fire, rubbing her feet together to warm them. Lucy's stomach growled but she tried to ignore it, knowing it was useless to complain since rations were short for everyone. She heard Edmund heave a sigh somewhere beside her. She looked up at him and thought he looked so weary, his posture slumped, silhouetted against the dull light. He looked so much older than his twelve years, so troubled.

"The war will be over soon, you know that, right?" she said quietly, gently prodding Edmund's side with her foot.

"It will be," he said grimly, nodding. "One way or another, it will be."

His words sounded strange, and rather ominous. Lucy shivered again and sat up to snuggle against her brother, pleasantly surprised when he did not push her away.

A gust of wind came and blew her hair about her face.

"Lucy…" Edmund began hesitantly. "Sometimes… when you want to do the right thing, but you're not sure how… and the right thing often seems wrong at first…"

"Edmund, what are you saying? Is it something about Lord Arlian?" she asked, looking up into his face. Her blue eyes were moist and innocent, and he could not meet her gaze.

"Never mind," he muttered, tossing his stick away. "It's cold out tonight. Why don't you go sleep with Susan?" He stood and held out his hand. She took it, still looking at him warily, and they walked off, hand-in-hand.

……………………

……………………….

Rynelf's limbs felt so numb and he couldn't move an inch. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was paralyzed. The pale creature was stooped over him and her tongue was teasing at the wound on his neck, the one she had torn with her teeth. His breath hitched and his head swam, his eyes slipping shut. Rynelf drifted off into reverie.

_He was young again, and walking through a field. The grass was soft and warm under his bare feet, and the sun was bright. Rynelf recalled the days when he was just a boy, living in the countryside with his family before he joined the military. He remembered his mother's brown hair and dark eyes, and the earthy color of the wheat that grew on the farm. _

_He remembered the yellow hair of the Narnian boy, how it looked like wheat in the sun, and how it reminded him of home. He had despised the boy at first, and thought him arrogant to have rebuffed the prince. Who was a Narnian slave to refuse Prince Caspian?_

_Then Rynelf realized, night after night of leading Peter to and from the Prince's tower, that it was not arrogance, but dignity and pride. Resentment for Peter turned into acceptance. Acceptance turned to admiration._

_Rynelf recalled that terrible night when Peter had been taken to the barracks. He could still hear the soldiers' raucous cheers, could still smell the sour wine lingering in the air. He remembered Peter's pale, frightened face, how the boy tried not to weep as he was groped and humiliated. He remembered the fair skin, smooth as milk, dotted with blue and black marks, and how Peter trembled in his arms. He hadn't wanted Peter's subjugation, no, but if felt so good to protect him._

_Most of all, Rynelf remembered the inexplicable chagrin at seeing the Narnian boy fall more and more in love with his Prince. When had resentment turned to interest? When had interest turned to love? Duty and love, devotion and lust, had warred constantly in Rynelf's mind as he watched them dally, the prince and the golden-haired boy._

She was trying to drag him off, her clawed fingers buried deeply in his hair. The soldier groaned in pain. The smell of his butchered horse's blood was sharp and tangy in the cold air, and he thought he would vomit. The ground was scraping against his back and he moaned in protest.

Rynelf forced his aching eyes open and saw the vampire grinning down at him, pale and horrific-looking. She leaned down in a jerky movement and bit him again, the gnash of her fangs creating such a dull, numb pain. His head swam again…

_The wheat field of his childhood had looked like burnished gold under the summer sun. It had been so warm and smelled so sweet amidst the stalks of wheat. _His _hair had been golden, golden like the sun-kissed wheat. How was it that a Narnian lad, with his exotic accent and even more exotic looks, could have made Rynelf feel so homesick?_

"_I want you to leave me," Peter had said, and in his pain, Rynelf remembered nothing but blue eyes, blue like the summer sky. _

"Come with me, handsome," she cackled, her shrill voice piercing Rynelf's ears. He nearly screamed. The toxin was working its way into his blood and he could feel his hand clenching spasmodically.

Strong, wiry legs wrapped around his torso and he was being lifted against his will. Taking a deep breath, Rynelf closed his eyes tightly until all he could see beneath his eyelids was the gentle blue of summer skies. Somehow, he found the energy to grasp his sword hilt. With all his strength, he drew his blade and slashed at her legs.

………………………..

…………………………

"Oh look, he's cute!" squealed the little girl, pointing at the baby. The prince was looking around with bright eyes, a little pout forming on rosy lips. The baby was sitting upright, supported by Peter's hands, being not old enough to sit on his own.

He had taken the prince out for a visit to the garden and they had stopped to rest amidst the hellebores and primroses, Peter's coat serving as a blanket for the little prince to sit on.

Presently, two young girls had gathered, probably children of the Telmarine courtiers by how nicely they were dressed. Wandered off, most likely. Dark curls framed two chubby, angelic faces and the girls were smiling and laughing at the novelty that was the infant, as if the prince were a plaything. Had they known that the child was actually the king's son, they might not have been so carefree.

"What is his name?" one of the asked, while the other bent down to play with the baby's hands.

"I'm not sure," Peter admitted, smiling down at the infant, who was now giggling. It was Telmarine custom that the prince's name not be publicly announced until the coronation, which usually took place a year after the prince's birth.

The two girls reminded him of his sisters, and Peter was glad of their company. He laughed with them and watched them play gently with the baby. Their time was disrupted, however, when an austere-looking noblewoman came looking for the girls.

She scolded them sharply before leading her daughters away, throwing a dark look over her shoulder at Peter. The boy could hear her muttering something about it being "horribly inappropriate to be seen with a Narnian," and how the queen would "die of shame if she knew the prince was being carried through the gardens and made to sit on the ground like a pauper's child."

"There's nothing wrong with a little fresh air," Peter muttered as the woman led the girls away. He picked the baby up and started to head back indoors.

As for the queen, Peter knew she would not even be lucid enough to be "die of shame." Day by day, as Peter cared for the prince and the child grew stronger, the queen descended further and further into madness. The physicians could find nothing physically wrong with her and declared it a sickness of the mind.

She would come into the nursery, staring blankly at all the baby's furniture but not saying a word. Peter would try to talk to her, but she would say nothing. Only senseless mutterings, quiet and meaningless, would pass from her bloodless lips.

She would walk in and out as if in a daze. Sometimes, she would sit in the rocking chair. Sometimes, she would stand by the window and gaze blankly out. Eventually, a nurse or lady-in-waiting would come to lead Prunaprismia away.

After awhile, Peter got used to her presence, and did not start anymore when the white-robed figure would walk in. He would still try to talk to her, to coax her out of her stupor. He would try to get her to take interest in her son, holding the baby in front of her, or placing the baby in her lap. She would never respond, and only show the slightest hint of recognition.

Most of the time, the queen would just sit there, watching Peter play with and take care of her son.

So, it startled Peter greatly when, one day, she spoke. He had been calling the baby "Redmond," – because it sounded like "Edmund" – while shaking a rattle at the prince. The prince was pouting at being teased, and kept trying to grab the toy with his fists.

"It's Rilian, actually," a soft voice murmured.

Peter nearly dropped the rattle. He turned around quickly, staring at the pale figure in the rocking chair.

"Y-your majesty?" he stammered.

"His name is Rilian," said the queen, and her voice was hoarse with disuse. Peter stared at her, and it looked like she hadn't spoken at all, her chin drooping down to her chest and her limp hands on her lap.

"It is a kingly name," Peter said quietly, barely noticing when the baby knocked the rattle from his hand with a triumphant squeal.

"Kingly?" said the queen. "I would that my child had never been borne to a king." And she remained silent after that.

Then, one day, the queen's madness finally got out of hand. She entered the nursery with a sword in hand, dangling uselessly between loose fingers. She looked quite deranged, and Peter was frightened.

Seeing him, Prunaprismia's eyes lit up in impassioned hate, and she pointed the blade at him. Peter hurriedly placed himself between her and the crib where Rilian was sleeping. He tried to speak to her, to calm her, but she would hear none of it.

"I want my husband back!" she shrieked, and lunged at Peter. Prunaprismia stumbled forwards, sword waving wildly in her hand. She lurched, crying out. Peter, not daring to use force, rushed up and grabbed her arm, twisting her wrist until she let go, and the sword clattered to the floor.

She slumped suddenly, as if all the energy had been drained from her, and Peter caught her about the waist. There was a brief scuffle, and they both slid to the floor, him supporting her. She was sobbing wildly into her hands by the time the guards arrived.

After that, the queen was ordered to be confined to her room and all sharp objects be kept out of her reach. Prunaprismia spent the majority of her days lying listlessly in bed, eyes gazing up at the ceiling. The nurses would come in now and then to help her bathe, dress, eat, or take short walks, but the staff avoided the queen as much as they could.

Surprisingly, it became Peter who visited her the most. The boy would sit by her bed and speak to her, telling her about her son, how strong he was growing and what nonsense Rilian was babbling that day. Sometimes, Peter would bring the baby to her bedside.

"There's your mama," Peter would coo, holding Rilian so that the child could gaze down at the woman. Once or twice, Peter tried to get the queen to sit up and hold the prince, but she always turned her head away and refused to move. He found that he pitied her, the cold Telmarine queen.

…………………………

…………………………

With solitary candle in hand, he stood over her bed and watched her sleeping. The thin blanket was pulled up to her breast, and her pale hand lay on top of the covers, over her heart. Her bosom rose and fell peacefully with each breath. Dark hair was spread out under her head and her fair skin looked like ivory.

On the battlefield, Susan was a warrior, fierce and genderless. When she fought, Susan was deadly and beautiful, but she frightened him. But there, lying in the dark, illuminated by the light of Edmund's candle, she seemed to him – what little he knew of it – the embodiment of femininity. She looked _softer_, but no less powerful and no less alluring. It was a different kind of power she had, without her sword and armor.

Not for the first time, he marveled at how she looked like their mother. With a strange thrill that he couldn't quite identify, Edmund imagined flesh that bore flesh, life that created life, and his vision was filled with the image of Susan's milky white skin. In that moment, he was filled with love for her, this now-peaceful creature that was so warm and beautiful. How strange and fascinating it was, the idea of _maternity_!

He laid a tentative hand on hers and clasped her fingers. Her skin was chilled, and he warmed the pale digits with his own hand. Bending forwards, he kissed her brow.

"I'm sorry, Susan," he whispered against her skin. "I hope you can forgive me."

The hand holding the candle was trembling, throwing flickering light all over the tent. Edmund straightened and turned to go but she caught his hand, surprising him. He looked down at her, but she still slept. Dreaming, she applied gentle pressure to his wrist and a small smile graced her rosy lips. Gently, he pulled away.

The morning of the battle came soon enough, and her hair was brown in the light of the sun. He stood watching his sister as she prepared for battle, drinking in every sight of her. He knew it would be a long time before he could see her again, if he was to follow through with his plan.

With a slight sigh of dismay, he watched her bind her hair. The locks disappeared under a metal helm. The soldiers were bustling about, nervous and tense before the battle, but she seemed so unaffected, so calm and strong.

Not usually so forward, Edmund walked up to her and embraced her. She looked surprised by such affection, but she hugged him back.

"Goodbye, Susan," he said softly, his voice thick. He laid his head on her breast and was calmed by the steady beating of her heart. She held his face between her hands and smiled down at her brother.

"Why, Edmund," she said to him cheerfully, "You sound as if I were leaving forever. We'll see each other again, you know." He didn't answer, but closed his eyes and held on tighter.

"Sometimes I wonder," she said, sounding sad all of a sudden, "when all this is over and done, and peace is restored, what shall I do?" She sighed softly. "It seems… I've been fighting, _living_, for this war for so long that I don't know if I can live without it. When the Resistance doesn't need me anymore, wherever shall I be?"

"With me, of course," Edmund said, his brow wrinkling in distress at her words.

Susan laughed lightly, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. He let her go, and she had one of the other soldiers help her with the rest of her armor. Then, she shouldered her bow and gave her troops the order to march out.

As she left the camp, back straight and head held high, surrounded by her people, and the dark prince walked by her side. Edmund's eyes lingered on her and he felt as if his heart would break. He watched her go, and when she was gone, he found his way over to where the Telmarine prisoner was held.

"Tell me again," he demanded, "what will be my reward for freeing you and leading you back to your people?"

Smugly, Arlian looked up at Edmund, bound though he was. "For helping me, the king will grant you and your family a full pardon and they will be taken into his protection."

"And can I hold you to your word?" Edmund said, drawing a knife from his belt.

"I swear," said Arlian, and his smile was twisted and conniving. Edmund immediately bent down and cut the Telmarine loose.

……………………….

………………………….

It was days later, when Peter was on his way to visit Cornelius again, when Lord Sopespian confronted him. In truth, Peter had been expecting the Telmarine, now promoted to Chancellor, to approach him and was surprised it took so long.

"Rather early for a walk around the castle, isn't it?" Sopespian said amiably, as Peter passed him in the hall. The boy ignored him and continued walking.

Peter grunted in surprise when the man grabbed his arm and spun him around to face him. Sopespian was smirking coldly, all merriment gone from his eyes.

"You should know who your betters are, boy. It is neither respectful nor advisable to spurn your superior, _Narnian_." His fingers tightened on Peter's arm and Peter glared back.

"Let go of my arm, _your Lordship_," Peter said through clenched teeth. Sopespian's very presence was making him sick, and he shuddered internally at how the man had tried to involve him in Miraz's murder.

"Days ago," Sopespian said with a sneer, "I gave you the poison and the perfect opportunity to kill your enemy. Yet Miraz still lives. Tell me, boy, why is this so?"

Strong fingers tightened painfully around Peter's bicep and the boy fought back a wince, not willing to give Sopespian any satisfaction by showing pain.

"I will not speak with you," he said, and yanked free. "Scheme if you must, but don't use me as a pawn, sir. I've no stomach for murder." He turned around and kept walking.

"_Whore_," Sopespian hissed, and Peter froze in his tracks, his face paling.

"That is what you are. You are nothing but the king's plaything," the Telmarine drawled as he stepped up close to Peter. "You strut around here as if you were a prince, but I know, and the whole court knows, that you were once nothing but a Narnian slave. Now, the king has made you a Narnian whore."

Sopespian brought his face close to the boy's neck and sniffed. "I can smell the wine on you. Your false act of piety sickens me. What do you hope to accomplish by keeping him alive? So you can continue to enjoy your privileges as the royal courtesan? The king keeps you well-dressed, doesn't he? You are nothing but a power-hungry, deceiving little, drunken…"

"That isn't true!" Peter cried out. "I don't want any of his 'privileges' but I won't help you murder the king!"

"Oh, but you _did_ help me," Sopespian said in a dangerous voice. "I could tell Miraz, you know. I could tell him that you took poison and tried to kill him. No matter how the king adores you, an attempted murder will not be pardoned."

"Neither will a murder plot be pardoned, no matter how much the king adores his new Chancellor," Peter shot back. "Do not involve me in your intrigues. I'll have none of it."

Sopespian chuckled at this. "Why do you protect the king so, boy? Do you enjoy being his bed-warmer, hm? Do you _enjoy_ spreading your legs for the man?" he taunted. "Are you as free with your… _services_ with everyone else? Perhaps I would like a sampling as well." He leered and stroked Peter's cheek.

Furious, Peter lashed out to slap Sopespian, but the man caught his wrist.

"Be careful, boy," Sopespian said, smirking while holding on to the struggling boy with ease. "I could have you arrested for attempting to assault me."

"Believe me, sir," Peter ground out, "if you accost me again, there will be no _attempt_." He pulled away and walked as fast as he could in the other direction.

"Good day," Sopespian called after Peter, his voice warm and merry once again.

………………………….

…………………………..

The woman next to him was no longer a girl-child, but a woman of steel. Her face was hard and grim as she gazed at the approaching Telmarine army. A swift signal from Susan's arm and the Narnian archers unleashed their deadly bolts.

The terrain was to their advantage. The Narnians were on higher ground, and the Telmarine war machines were difficult to use among the dense forest. Each arrow found its mark, and Glozelle's infantry were felled by tens.

Another tense movement of Susan's arm and the gryphons attacked from the sky, carrying boulders and dropping them on the war machines. The heavy rocks dropping from the sky damaged the machines.

"For Narnia!" she bellowed, raising her sword to the sky, and her voice commanded the army. The Narnians charged down the slope towards the Telmarines and Caspian ran with them, sword hefted high and shouting the same battle cry.

In the midst of battle, Caspian glanced over to where Susan was fighting, and she looked so _wild._ She had long discarded her bow and drawn her sword, a long knife braced against her other forearm like a shield. With both arms she fought, and the steel glinted fiercely with every movement. She looked savage, yet elegant, the dark green of her kirtle nearly blending in with the foliage, blue eyes cold as ice yet burning with passion.

She fought as if she were dancing, arms moving in perfect synchronization with her feet, pivoting to avoid blows and pivoting to land fatal swipes with her blade, the steel merely an extension of her body.

Caspian swung his sword with practiced ease. It was easier than he had thought it would be, killing his own countrymen. He was their prince, and the Telmarines had turned against him, yet he had always thought that when the time came to do battle, he would falter and hesitate to kill. There was none of that hesitation, and the prince, in almost a mechanical fashion, slashed and bludgeoned and cried out in fury just as they did.

A person to his right screamed and raised a bloody blade to strike him down, and Caspian barely had time to bring up his own blade and block it. Parrying the blow, Caspian was shocked to see that it was Susan. Eyes clouded by battle-lust, she had not recognized him. For a moment, their eyes met and there was the fiery _challenge_ in her gaze and Caspian was taken aback. He understood then, that he was no king in her eyes, and that she, such a fierce creature, would probably never accept him as one.

With a scream, she pushed him aside as if he were a rag doll, and dove towards a man right behind Caspian, taking the soldier down with two efficient swipes of her sword.

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"I wonder," she said slowly and heavily in the aftermath of the battle, "when all this is over and done, and peace is restored, the clamor of battle descended into silence, and you sit upon your empty throne with crowned head, the glory and power and kingdom resting with _you_, where will _I_ be?"

Her words rang hollowly in Caspian's ears, and the prince stared at her, paused in the cleaning of his sword. He looked around, not knowing what to say. The centaur, Glenstorm was seeing to the wounded. The brown earth was stained rusty-red with blood, and the air was thick with smoke.

"I don't fight for power or glory, or even my rightful throne," he said finally.

"And love?" Susan inquired, her voice softening.

"Yes, for love." He nodded, his eyes growing distant. It was so difficult to imagine _his_ beauty in the face of such bleakness.

"Sometimes," sighed Susan, "I wonder when that had changed for me."

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"What was so important that you had me roused at this hour?" Miraz complained, his arms crossed imperiously, staring at Glozelle. The king was in his dressing gown, and had been rather rudely awakened by the servants, who claimed the general had arrived with urgent news.

Glozelle looked exhausted, his appearance disheveled as if he had just rode in from battle. He was still in his armor with his helm tucked underneath an arm and his sword was still strapped to his waist. His face bore the sweat and wounds that had not yet been attended to.

"The Prince," the general said, without much preamble. "He is alive."

"_What_?" Miraz demanded, his face paling instantly. "How do you know this?"

Glozelle hesitated before speaking. "He rode into battle with the Narnians. He fought against us, Sire."

"And how many know of this?"

"What is left of the regiment that attacked the Southern frontier, your majesty, and I myself."

Miraz frowned and seemed to be in deep thought. "You will speak to no one about this," he said. "And you will be wise to make sure your men do not either, unless they wish to be silent."

"Understood, your majesty." There was an unreadable expression on the general's face, and Miraz thought Glozelle actually looked _smug_.

"What are you thinking?" the king snapped impatiently. His head was starting to ache dully.

"Nothing," Glozelle replied, and a small smirk appeared on his lips, hidden by his beard. "It's just that I had imagined his majesty would be more pleased to know that his nephew is alive and well, regardless of where Prince Caspian's allegiances lay."

"Do not call him Prince!" the king fumed. "There is only one prince, and that is my child. Caspian forsook that title the moment he sided with _them_. And don't think I don't hear the whispered rumors, general." The king sneered, making a fist. "I know what the gossips say behind my back. They say that _I_ ordered to have Caspian killed."

"I have heard such rumors," Glozelle said neutrally. "The nobility believes that Caspian's supposed death was no accident, but assassination."

"And what do _you_ think, general?" Miraz demanded angrily. He glared at Glozelle, the man's calm demeanor irritating the king.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare to say what I think," the general replied, before bowing respectfully and taking his leave.

The king was troubled as he walked back to his bedchamber. It was still gray in the light of the dawn, but the shocking news had already awakened him fully. So, Caspian was alive? The king felt his gut clench and his expression soured.

Miraz glanced at the figure in the bed. Peter was still slumbering, golden hair spilling onto the pillow, a pale arm stretched out to his side. Sighing, the king walked over to the bedside. He watched the boy sleep and gently touched the fair face with a ringed hand.

"You are mine," the king whispered harshly. "I won't let you go back to him."

Peter's breath hitched and a tear escaped from closed eyelids to roll down his cheek. Miraz wondered what the boy could be dreaming of that it would bring him such sorrow, even in sleep.

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Edmund fumbled with the leather satchel, packing it with provisions and warm clothes. His movements were frenzied and erratic. He was trembling, nervous, as he removed his father's sword, _Peter's_ sword, from where it lay against the side of Susan's cot.

"You're going to do something awful, aren't you?" Lucy said, entering the tent behind him.

Edmund stiffened at her voice. "Lucy…"

"Oh, Edmund, what are you thinking? Please don't do anything rash! Susan and Prince Caspian will be back soon…"

"Susan mustn't know about this," he said tersely, shouldering the satchel and buckling the sword to his belt.

He turned around to walk out of the tent but she barred his way. Her face looked quite fierce and her fists were balled in determination.

"I won't let you do it," she declared.

"Lucy, step aside," Edmund said, giving her a commanding look, but she refused to budge. He tried to walk past her but she shoved him back, her arms surprisingly strong.

"How could you even think of betraying Susan?" she said angrily. "If you help him, you're turning your back on everyone here! All this time we spent fighting and you're going to throw it all away-!"

Her angry words were cut off as the Telmarine suddenly stepped up behind her and pressed a cloth over her mouth. With a startled cry, Lucy's eyes went wide with alarm, then slipped closed. She slumped to the ground, unconscious. The acrid smell of some drug permeated the air.

"What did you do to her?!" Edmund shouted furiously, rushing forwards and pushing Arlian out of the way. The boy knelt next to his sister and frantically shook her.

"She's alright," said the man, carefully discarding the cloth. "It's just the same sleeping powder we used on the guards."

Gently, lovingly, Edmund took Lucy into his arms and carried her over to Susan's cot. He laid her down and tucked the blanket around her while Arlian waited impatiently.

"Hurry up, boy," the man said, nervously looking out of the tent. "They will be back soon and we'll both be caught."

"I'm sorry," Edmund whispered to Lucy. He brushed light curls out of her pale face, then turned to go.

He and Arlian cloaked themselves, then saddled one of the dumb horses from the camp. They stole away into the woods, Edmund leading the way towards the nearest Telmarine settlement.

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Notes: sorry i took so long with this chapter! schoolwork's been really hectic. i know there's not a lot of peter/caspian action, but it's coming! promise! Please, please feedback and lemme know wat u think!


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 21

It felt like he was in some sort of dream, but the constant pressure of cold and heat kept Peter so very lucid. Snow was falling from a silvery-gray sky. Each feathery flake fell and fell, drifting in the wind until it landed on the cold, cold stone and melted slowly into a crystalline teardrop.

Peter gasped softly and let his head loll back against the rough stone wall. It was cold, freezing, but he clung tightly to his lover with numb hands.

The king spread his dark furred cape over him like an eagle spreading its wing to protect a nest of chicks. Snow was falling, and it was so lovely. Dots of white were sprinkled over the darkness of the fur and mixed in with the silky filaments of the king's hair; Peter reached out and ran his hand over the dark locks and the snow slid off, exposing damp, wet hair that was almost bluish in the light. The snow was swirling in the wind, and it was so lovely…

"Are you afraid of me?" the king whispered to him, above him, and Peter wondered if he had somehow fainted, not remembering when Miraz had lowered him to the floor. He kept drifting off, eyes growing hazy, only to be brought back to wakefulness again and again as the king touched him. The castle beneath his bare skin was icy, but the body above him was so hot. The boy's breath grew short as his sensitive flesh was stroked and kissed. A ringed hand was caressing his thigh, pressing his legs open.

Every inch of them seemed to be connected somehow as Miraz pressed him so tightly to the body of his beloved castle. Flesh on flesh, flesh on stone…

"We Telmarines value austerity," the king had told him once, in the midst of the falling snow. "We believe in strength and simplicity.

"This castle, the house of my forefathers, was built with nothing but the stones of the earth, hard and sturdy like the Telmarines themselves. The walls bear no decoration or carvings to tell stories of my people's conquests, but proof of their valor lies in the very stone itself.

"You may not think that this castle is beautiful, with its unornamented walls and dark towers. Indeed, I have heard Narnians call it cruel, and evil-looking. But during the coldest and harshest months of winter, the snow and ice cover each and every stone and the castle glows blue in the moonlight, each spire turned into a shard of crystal.

"Look, Peter. See how the very walls of the castle seem to be made of pure ice? It's as if the forces of nature themselves have joined with the single purpose of creating this perfect, beautiful, simplicity, to make the stones of my father's house to life. Have you ever seen anything like it?"

And Peter had looked at Miraz in wonder. He hadn't thought the king to be capable of such thoughts. Then, Miraz had taken his cold face between ringed hands and kissed his trembling lips.

He was drifting off again, so he clung tighter to the king's neck. Peter shivered at the feeling of Miraz's hands stroking him, and he cried out softly over and over as he accepted the king into his pale body. He closed his eyes as he was wracked with warm tremors.

Peter felt the king sigh and shudder above him, and in a moment of passion, the boy forgot himself and called out Caspian's name. Miraz pulled back in surprise and Peter almost thought the king might strike him, but then Miraz's eyes were filled with such lingering sorrow that, for a moment, Peter imagined the king to be as beautiful as the winter castle.

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There was a great shock waiting for Susan and the victorious Narnians when they returned to camp at dusk. The Telmarine prisoner was gone, the ropes securing him slashed to bits, and the few guards stationed to watch over him were lying prostrate on the ground, drugged.

As some of the others tried to rouse the unconscious guards, Susan called frantically for Lucy and Edmund, not bothering to shed herself of blood-stained armor. She found Lucy in her tent. The little girl was similarly unconscious and she was slumped half on the ground and half on Susan's cot, her arm stretched out as if reaching. In her drugged stupor, Lucy had tried to drag herself up and follow Edmund.

Effortlessly, Susan picked up her little sister in strong arms and replaced her on the cot. Tapping her cheeks gently, Susan managed to wake Lucy up but her sister was drowsy.

"Lucy, where is Edmund?" Susan asked gently, but Lucy hid her face in her hands and wept.

Then, two of her soldiers entered the tent behind her, supporting one of the guards that had just been awakened. She saw Caspian as well as others also piling in, faces grim.

"What happened here?" Susan demanded of the man, drawing Lucy into her arms.

"He and the hostage headed north," said the man shakily, face still pale and drawn.

"You mean that the Telmarine kidnapped him?" Susan said.

"No, he _freed_ the prisoner," the guard said, wiping his face as if to wake himself.

"We tried to stop them… they took one of the horses. I think they headed north."

There were soft gasps from everyone present and they all looked to Susan, not sure how to react. Anger and the pain of betrayal registered on her face and her eyes grew cold. She let go of Lucy abruptly and clenched her fists.

"We can organize a search party right away," Caspian spoke up, immediately going to the table and rolling out one of the maps. "They couldn't have gotten far. Arlian probably wanted to head for the nearest Telmarine town to seek refuge. That would be north of here, about a day's travel."

"That way is too dangerous," Susan interrupted, shaking her head. "Telmarine soldiers have overrun the northern parts of the wood. We can't risk sending our people out that way. We'll have to go another route."

"No," Caspian interjected. "Arlian would have wanted to reach his own forces as soon as possible, so they will be traveling quickly. By the time we find another route, they'll have crossed Glasswater, if they haven't already. You know these woods better than I. If you travel fast, you might be able to stop them."

"You seem to know an awful lot about what he would have done," said Susan suspiciously, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "How do I know you weren't plotting to help your fellow Telmarine?"

Caspian stared at her for a moment then spoke slowly, as if trying not to agitate her.

"Susan, I understand you're upset, but accusing me won't solve anything."

"So you're sending me out on a search party?" Susan said, smiling in a way that was both sardonic and challenging. "I didn't know that a Telmarine prince had such authority here."

"I'm not _sending_ you to do anything," Caspian said in frustration. He had thought that the power struggle between them had been resolved. "I'm merely suggesting that since you know these woods better than I, and you obviously know your brother better, perhaps you should take some soldiers and-"

"Oh you'd like that, wouldn't you? I'll go traipsing through the forest on some chase while _you_ take charge here."

Her hand twitched and Caspian could see that she was going for her knife.

"Susan!" It was Lucy who interrupted what might have been another fight. "He's just trying to help. We all want to help Edmund, don't we?"

At her sister's pleading voice, Susan sighed and seemed to deflate, shoulders sagging slightly. "Help him? He made his choice to betray us, Lucy. How can we help him now?"

"He is still your brother," Caspian said earnestly.

"You and Edmund never got on," Susan remarked to the prince, brow lifted. "Why are you so concerned about him, when he has obviously turned on us?"

Caspian smiled wryly. "I know how it feels to be separated from someone I love."

Susan looked at him for a moment, and Caspian was afraid her stubbornness would take over again. But, she finally nodded in acquiescence.

"I apologize for what I said," she said humbly. "I'll set out at dawn, and I'll bring Edmund back to us."

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The buildings of the Telmarine settlement were dark and austere. The people's faces were serious and suspicious, and they stared at the strange twosome traveling together. There were no children running in the streets and no animals to be seen except for an occasional horse. Edmund couldn't help but think of how different this town was, compared to his own home. It was so gloomy and void of any cheer.

He and Arlian traveled through the town to the house of Lord Drinian to seek sanctuary, but the man himself was not present. Instead, it was the nobleman's wife, Ismenia, who came out to greet them. Edmund thought she looked terribly meek with her hands folded in front of here, chin and eyes lowered.

A stable boy came to take the horse away, and he looked at Edmund suspiciously. Edmund fidgeted as Arlian and Lady Ismenia spoke, all too aware of his distinctly Narnian features and how he was being stared at.

"Lord Drinian is being kept at court and I apologize that he is not here to receive you," said the Lady, courteously leading Arlian indoors, Edmund trailing awkwardly behind.

"Then I shall have to make due with his hospitality," Arlian said haughtily, unfastening and dropping his travel-stained cloak to the floor. He plopped himself in an armchair when they reached the parlor and called to one of the servants for mulled wine. Ismenia stood by uneasily, not sure how to react to the man's rudeness.

"Are any of your husband's men still guarding this place?" Arlian asked, gesturing lazily and sinking back into the cushions of the chair, not caring that his dirty clothes were probably staining the fine upholstery.

"Yes, my Lord," she replied.

"Then have them arrest this boy," said Arlian, casually plucking the warm goblet from a tray that the servant brought to him.

"Th-this boy?" the Lady stammered, glancing at Edmund, who grew pale as he realized the man's intentions. "I thought he was your slave…"

"He is a dangerous Narnian fugitive," said Arlian, sneering a little. "I have been a prisoner of war for nearly a month now, and have just escaped. This boy is one of the Narnians that held me captive. Call the guards, woman!" he snapped when she still hesitated.

"Oh, dear," she gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. She gave Edmund a horrified look and ran out of the room.

Edmund immediately fell upon Lord Arlian, grabbing the man's shirt front and snarling in righteous anger. "What are you doing?!" he hissed. "You said you'd take me to the king!"

"And so I shall," said Arlian smugly, just as Ismenia reentered with two burly guards flanking her. "But you shall go as a prisoner. You are _my_ hostage now, boy."

The boy's eyes widened in dread at the full realization of his situation and they dragged Edmund away, struggling.

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Rynelf could hear the girl weeping again. It had been three days since the Narnians had found him in the woods, nearly dead of blood-loss with the slain vampire lying next to him. They had brought him back and tended to him. They had spoken to him, soft words of comfort that Rynelf couldn't make out, but he could hear her crying more clearly than anything else.

He struggled to open his eyes and saw Susan huddled in the corner of the tent, face buried in pale hands. She had stolen away from the rest of the camp, not wanting anyone else to see her weakness.

Rynelf had seen her cry before, but only in frustration and childish anger. She was now weeping in sorrow and helplessness. She looked softer now, more like a girl than a woman, and for some reason, Rynelf that she looked lovelier when she let her emotions free.

He tried to speak to her, but his bandaged throat was too painful. Why was she weeping? He closed his eyes and imagined that she was crying for him.

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Edmund was kept prisoner in the house, locked away in an upstairs room. He had ideas of escaping, perhaps striking the guard outside with the chamber pot and running, but the number of rather vicious-looking men posted to guard him soon discouraged any such notions. The Lady of the house had him treated quite well, feeding him generously and giving him clean clothes, but Edmund was too miserable to be grateful. Over and over again, he would wish that he had never left the rest of the Narnians. He missed Susan and Lucy more than ever.

He stared at the gray walls of his prison day after day, and guilt grew in his heart. Had he betrayed them all for nothing?

Lord Arlian, in the meantime, had made himself an honored guest in Drinian's house. He helped himself to good man's wine cellar, treated Drinian's halls as if they were his own, and treated the man's wife as if she were a servant. Ismenia, being a good Telmarine wife, was ever obedient.

During his stay, Arlian composed a grandiose letter to Miraz, telling of his abduction by the Narnians as if it were ten times more horrible than it actually was, and creating a daring story of how he had managed to escape and capture their leader's own brother, and also managed to gather important war information that would help the Telmarine side greatly. The man fully expected to be welcomed into the king's castle like a hero.

It was the third day of Edmund's imprisonment that an answer came to Arlian's request to see the king. Lord Sopespian had received – intercepted, in fact – the message and had traveled to Drinian's house with an entourage of his own men. He was greeted at the door by Arlian, the other man welcoming Sopespian into the house as if _he, _Arlian, were the master of the household.

"Poor man, being kept a prisoner of those _savage_ people," Sopespian intoned, as he sat with Arlian in Drinian's parlor. Ismenia stood by with a jug of wine in her hands, silent and obedient as always. Arlian drained his cup and she poured him another drink. The man's face was already taking on a red glow from having much wine.

"It was quite terrible," Arlian said proudly, as if his ordeal was something to be boasted about. "Those Narnians can barely be called _people_, you know. Those that weren't wild beasts acted like wild beasts. I was lucky not to have been devoured alive before I escaped. Uncivilized creatures, really. We would do them a favor by taking them all as slaves, teach them how to be cultured."

"I see," said Sopespian, voice oozing with false sympathy. "It is fortunate that you have escaped, Lord Arlian. The king will be very pleased to know that you have acquired valuable information about our enemies, as well as a hostage. Susan Pevensie's brother, I have heard?"

Arlian drained his cup, and Ismenia poured him another drink.

Tongue loosened, the man rattled off information about Susan's army, where they were stationed, their supply lines, their numbers, their weapons. Arlian was flushed strawberry-red, his voice loud and sloppy. It was growing hot, and the man loosened his collar. He was sweating. He looked over at Sopespian and wondered why the other man did not seem to notice the heat.

Arlian raised his head to rebuke Ismenia for having too many braziers lit, but found that his vision was bleary and his tongue was swollen. With a groan, Arlian wiped at his face with his hand and tried to call for assistance. She did not seem to acknowledge his plight and merely stared at him. He noticed, with a shiver, that she no longer seemed meek and her eyes were shining with some vicious luster as she watched him struggle for breath. Calmly, she refilled his empty cup.

"Very fortunate, _indeed_, that you have survived," Sopespian drawled, running his finger along the rim of his own untouched goblet. Now choking, hand clasped to his throat, Arlian stumbled to his feet.

"Trickster!" he rasped, pointing a swollen finger at the other man. His lips were turning blue and sweat was staining his face.

"Aren't we all?" Sopespian replied genially, watching Arlian fall to his knees. Sopespian called for a cup of water and sipped it calmly as if there wasn't a dying man at his feet, coughing up blood.

Presently, Sopespian's personal messenger entered the room. "You sent for me, sir?" the newcomer asked, trying his hardest to ignore the dying man, knowing all too well of his master's intrigues.

"Send a message to our gracious king," Sopespian said, eyes fixed on Arlian, who had now fallen on his side and was wheezing pitifully. "Inform his majesty that I have captured him a hostage. The younger Pevensie brother is now in my custody, after a tiring campaign in the south. Unfortunately, I was unable to rescue the noble Lord Arlian, as he was murdered most cruelly by the Narnians in his attempt to fight them."

He leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees, and looked into the dying man's eyes. "That makes you sound like a hero, doesn't it, my old friend?" he said, his voice merry, as usual. "It's more than you deserve, you know."

Arlian tried to cry out, but he seized violently and then laid still, the other three people in the room becoming a macabre audience to his death.

"Wh-what about the information that Lord Arlian said he had?" the messenger gulped.

"Oh, never mind that," Sopespian said, waving his hand casually. A flick of his finger sent a servant scurrying over to refill his cup of water. "Let the king torture the information out of the boy. He isn't called 'Miraz the Merciless' for nothing, is he? We'll just be helping the king to uphold his reputation."

Sopespian chuckled and stood. He gave Lady Ismenia a polite bow. "Thank you for the wine, my Lady," he said. "I'm afraid I must take my leave of your house soon. I'll be taking the boy with me, of course, and we'll set out for the capital tomorrow."

"What of my husband?" she asked. "Is he still under investigation?"

"I'm afraid that's a matter to be taken up with the king," said Sopespian cheerily, and left the room.

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In his twelve years, Edmund had seen his share of hardship. Losing his mother and father had forced him to survive without parents, but even then, Peter and Susan had been there to care for him. For the first time, he found himself completely alone in the midst of hostile strangers.

His new captor, Lord Sopespian, was no kinder than the deceased Lord Arlian. Edmund was given no mount and was marched, on foot, all the way to the Telmarine capital. The menacing soldier that was his warden would lash his hands together with coarse rope and pull him along the freezing road, only loosening the bonds at night so that Edmund could sleep.

When they finally reached the castle, days later, Edmund was barely able to stand for the pain in his feet. He was cold and hungry, and so very exhausted. With Sopespian leading the procession proudly on his stallion, he was dragged into the castle gates.

It was Peter who saw Edmund first, from the open balcony in the king's room. He nearly cried out with the shock of seeing his brother's pale, dirty face, forced to cross the courtyard with his hands bound.

"The messenger told me that your brother has attempted to betray his own people, in order to grant himself clemency," Miraz mused, coming up behind Peter and laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "The very morale of the Resistance must be disintegrating if your own brother has turned traitor, no?"

"I have to go see him," Peter gasped and turned as if to run from the room, but Miraz grabbed his arm and wrenched him back.

"You are forbidden," hissed the king. "Your brother is my prisoner now, and you will not speak to him," and Peter dared not disobey, for fear of what Miraz would do to Edmund.

So, he waited until the dead of night to sneak out of bed and he made his way to the dungeons. His mind was whirring with thoughts of the consequences should he be caught, but Peter _couldn't_ leave his little brother locked up in a cell.

"Let me see my brother," Peter pleaded to the guards, but they refused him entrance.

"It is the king's orders that you should not be allowed in the dungeons," said the head guard, smiling nastily at Peter. There was a bottle of wine on the nearby table, and six other guards were sitting there, drinking and playing cards.

"You must let me see him," Peter implored, but they laughed at him and refused to let him pass.

"The Narnian traitor is nothing to look at," one of them jeered. "He betrayed the Resistance, don't you know? Tried to offer his allegiance to the king so that he would be pardoned. Why would you want to see him?"

"He is my brother!" Peter said. "Please, have you no pity in your hearts? Don't you have sons? Edmund is only twelve years old! He's just a boy. He's probably so frightened. Let me see him, I beg you! I would do anything if you take me to him."

The head guard stood and looked at Peter thoughtfully for a moment. Then, with an unpleasant look in his eyes, he dismissed three of the men. Peter noticed that it was the younger, more honest-looking three that were sent away. The remaining three men looked very much like the head guard, cruel and willing, immoral.

Fleetingly, Peter wondered if he could fight all four of them, but quickly discarded that idea. If there was a fight, the alarm would be sounded and he couldn't afford that, if he was to help Edmund.

He fought back a flinch when the head guard touched his cheek, his hair.

"I would do anything," Peter repeated, eyes staring defiantly, _willing _himself to be strong. "For just an hour with my brother, I would do anything."

The guard leered then, and turned to nod at the other three men. There must have been some kind of unspoken communication between them, for Peter saw the other three men stand up and move towards him all at once.

He closed his eyes as they descended on him, and everything became a blur of grasping hands, bruised knuckles, skinned knees, and hot sticky soreness. He must have cried out at some point.

It was a horrific hour. By the time they were finished, Peter lay slumped against the table, cheeks burning with the humiliation of what they had made him do, fighting not to weep in his shame.

With his face and eyes swollen, garments askew, and a limp in his step, Peter allowed himself to be led away by the smug head guard. He could see the others lounging lazily behind, and their languid smiles sickened him.

He was walked down a flight of dimly lit stairs and into a maze of stone corridors. The guard held a flickering torch in one hand, and kept tight fingers on Peter's arm with the other hand. The boy was half grateful for the tight grip, for their abuses on his body hurt, and he would have stumbled had not the man been keeping him upright.

When they reached Edmund's cell, Peter saw that his brother was curled up on his side, knees tucked tightly into his chest and arms over his head. There was a thin blanket covering him, but Peter could see Edmund shivering in the cold and a wave of pity and sadness washed over him.

"You have _half_ an hour," the guard said as he unlocked the cell door. He pushed Peter inside and slammed it shut, walking off briskly.

The door slamming had roused Edmund from his sleep and the boy immediately stiffened and looked up fearfully. However, the tense, frightened expression on his pale was turned into one of joy and utter disbelief when he saw his brother looking concernedly at him.

"Peter?" Edmund cried, trembling all over.

"Oh, Ed!" Peter nearly wept and swept his brother into a tight embrace. Kneeling on the dirty floor, they sobbed into each other's arms, letting out tears of sorrow, guilt, and the happiness of finally, _finally_, being reunited.

Edmund pressed his dirty face into Peter's shirt front and held on desperately, relishing the warmth of his older brother. His brother was _alive_ and here, and the dirty, gray walls of the prison cell no longer suffocated him. What harm could come to him, now that Peter was here?

"Edmund, what have you done?" Peter whispered sadly, stroking the dark curls, and Edmund was wracked with guilt once again.

"I'm sorry-" he began, but then broke down in a mess of crying, apologies, and broken speech.

"Shh," Peter soothed, gently running his hands up and down Edmund's bony back. "Is Lucy alright? Is she safe?"

"She's safe," Edmund sniffled, wiping at his eyes mournfully. "She's with Susan."

"With _Susan_?" Peter gasped, brow wrinkling in distress. "What do you mean?"

"She's with Susan," Edmund repeated, "and with the rest of the Narnians. She's safe, Peter, I promise."

"Ed, Susan's been taken to a work camp. How can she…" Peter broke off, paling at the honest confusion in Edmund's face. A disgusting feeling settled in his stomach.

Peter spoke hesitantly, "Where is Susan?"

Slowly, Edmund began to tell Peter all that had happened since the day he was taken away by Miraz's men. He watched Peter's face grow tighter and tighter as the tale progressed, and was startled when Peter suddenly leaned forward and seized him by the arms.

"Caspian?" Peter exclaimed breathlessly. "You've met Prince Caspian? He's alive?"

"Y-yes," Edmund said, surprised at Peter's reaction.

"Oh, Edmund!" Peter cried, and embraced his brother again, tears of joy falling down his cheeks. He almost sobbed in his happiness and bade his brother continue.

Edmund, shame-faced but encouraged by Peter, told of his betrayal. He wept again, like a little child, when he revealed how foolish he was, thinking that Arlian would somehow have the king pardons Susan.

"I overhead them talking," said Edmund fearfully, at the end of his tale. "They said they would make me talk, so that I would help them win the war. What's going to happen, Peter?"

"Nothing's going to happen," Peter said, wiping away tears of happiness. He couldn't stop smiling at the thought that Caspian was alive. "I'm getting you out of here."

"But how?" Edmund asked and Peter quickly shushed him, looking out warily between the bars of the cell.

"The guard will be back soon," Peter said, his voice now growing hushed and terse. "We must hurry."

Up the flight of stairs, at the dungeon gate, one of the guards who had denied Peter entrance suddenly dropped his cup of wine. The man's eyesight grew hazy and he realized, with a sinking feeling, that the wine had been drugged.

"Don't drink anymore!" he shouted, turning to his comrades, only to see that they were already unconscious, slumped on the floor. The man then groped for the keys on his belt, only to find that they were missing.

"The Narnian!" he hissed, before his vision blackened and he swooned as well.

Back in Edmund's cell, Peter was drawing a crude map in the dust, using his finger.

"Follow this corridor," he said, making sure Edmund was watching where he was pointing, "and go up the stairs at the end."

"What about the guards there?" Edmund asked.

"They're asleep," Peter said, a hint of smugness in his voice. He pointed at the makeshift map again. "Then you follow this path to get outdoors, but you mustn't be seen. Wait until dawn. There'll be a shipment of weapons going out, and they'll open the gate and lower the drawbridge. You can get away then, maybe hide yourself among the supply wagons. Would you know how to get back to Susan once you're out of here?"

"I think I can figure it out," Edmund said slowly and he looked at Peter, slightly baffled. "But Pete, you're talking as if I'm going alone. You're coming with me, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "But the guard who keeps the watch will be back soon. If he doesn't see a body in this cell, the alarm will be raised and there won't be time for you to escape."

"What are you talking about?" Edmund cried, eyes widening in disbelief.

"There isn't time to sit here talking," Peter said, hands moving quickly to unbutton his collar. "Give me your shirt, and you can wear mine. They'll need to believe I'm you."

"No!" Edmund gasped. "You can't do this. There has to be another way that we can both escape!"

"Whether there is or not, we only have this one chance to get you out of here," said Peter. "They won't let me see you again, Ed. Just to be able to come down here tonight, I had to…" He silenced himself, frowning and shaking his head as if to clear it.

"Imagine what they'll do to you if they found out you helped me!" Edmund pleaded, grabbing onto his brother's hands.

Peter laughed softly and gently squeezed back. "Nothing they haven't already," he said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "Don't worry about me, Ed. I'll be fine, really. You just think about how to get back to Susan once you're out."

"You're lying," Edmund said, nearly starting to weep again. "You're not going to be fine, and you know it. And it won't work, anyway! You're taller than me, and your hair is yellow."

"It's dark in here," said Peter, starting to unbutton Edmund's shirt when his brother refused to move. "And I'll lie down on my side and cover my head with the blanket. The guard won't look too closely. Come _on_, Ed, there isn't time!"

With a quiet sob, Edmund threw his arms around Peter's neck and squeezed him into a tight hug. He kissed his brother's cheek, then pulled away.

Quickly, Edmund stripped off his own shirt, shivering in the cold, and Peter did the same.

Edmund drew in a sharp breath as Peter's torso became exposed and Peter realized his brother was staring at the scars on his back, the remnants of the time he had suffered in Miraz's torture chambers.

Not wanting his brother to have second thoughts, Peter quickly grabbed his brother's shirt and put it on, urging Edmund to dress himself. He knew if he moved fast, Edmund would have less time to think about things and lose his nerve. With the pilfered keys, Peter unlocked the cell door as quietly as he could and Edmund slipped outside. He pulled it closed after him.

"Give my love to the girls," Peter whispered, holding onto Edmund's hands through the bars, and Edmund sniffled. He kissed his little brother on the forehead and gave Edmund a little shove, signaling that he should go.

"Edmund?" Peter asked, just as his brother was turning to leave. "Does he… does he talk about me? Prince Caspian, I mean."

"All the time," Edmund said, smiling warmly in the dark, and a moment later, Peter was alone.

A while after Edmund left, the guard came back to check on him. Peter, heart thumping wildly in his chest, curled up in the corner of the filthy cell and drew the thin blanket over his face and head.

"He's left you already?" said the Telmarine scornfully, seeing that there was only one person in the cell. "Even your brother can't stand to look at you, traitor that you are."

Peter coughed loudly, face hidden in his hands and the guard left, disgusted at whatever sickness the prisoner had.

He let the darkness envelope him, hoping against all hope that Edmund had escaped. Peter dared not go to sleep, afraid that he would somehow be discovered if he let his guard down.

It was dreadfully cold, and the guard's constant footsteps were unnerving. The hard floor was aggravating the bruises he had received, and he was painfully reminded of the last time _he _had been locked up in a cell.

Still, Peter could not help but smile and smile in the dark. Susan and Lucy were safe. _Caspian_ was alive, and hopefully, Edmund would soon be alright as well. All the ones he loved were safe, and Peter could not hope for more.

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Notes: Once again, I'm really sorry it took so long to write this chapter! Thanks to everyone who's still reading. Please leave feedback and lemme know what you think!!


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 22

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Susan drew the hood of her cloak tighter around her face, trying to ward off the harsh wind. Her cheeks were red and chapped, her fingers numb. The thin layer of snow crunched under her boots as she walked.

For days, her search party had been looking for Edmund, but the trail was near impossible to follow. The Telmarine had been clever, careful to cover their tracks, and the cold of the oncoming winter made it hard for even the dogs to sniff them out.

Her bitterness consumed her, day and night. Her youthful face became pinched and weary.

"I don't think I shall ever forgive him," she would declare sometimes, voice hard and cold.

But then, her eyes would grow sad. "Was I a good sister?" she would ask, hesitantly, insecurely. "I tried so hard to be a good sister, so very hard."

"You are the very best of sisters," Trufflehunter would reassure, laying a furry paw on her hand as she brooded by the fire.

"Then why would he do such a thing?" she would reply.

The kind badger would always respond, "There will be time enough to ask him yourself, when we bring Edmund back safe and sound. Don't worry."

So, they kept searching. The woods were hard to travel in. The frost and the chill lowered the spirits of them all. Nearly a week passed, and there was still no sign of Edmund, the runaway hostage, or the Telmarine town. Susan was growing uneasy, not knowing what was going on with Caspian and the rest of her army.

"I don't understand it," Susan muttered, studying the map that she had spread out over the frozen ground. "We should be getting close…"

"My Lady!" a squeaky voice suddenly interrupted. Susan looked up to see Reepicheep running towards her. "We have discovered a spy!"

"Take me to this spy," Susan said, standing promptly.

"She's more of a stowaway, actually," said the mouse good-naturedly, leading Susan off to the edge of the camp.

There, surrounded by Reepicheep's mice, sat a rather tousled-looking Lucy. The mice had ambushed her as she was following Susan's search party, as they thought that she was the enemy. After they had caught her, they had, of course, apologized profusely for attacking her. She was perched on a tree stump, happily nibbling away at a ration of cheese that Peepikeek had procured for her. Susan let out an annoyed groan when she saw her little sister.

"Lucy!" she scolded, silently berating herself for not having foreseen such an act. "I _told _you to stay at the camp with Caspian. What were you thinking, following us into the woods?"

"I wanted to come along with you," the girl protested, brushing crumbs off her skirt and standing up. "I thought you'd be happy to see me, Su."

"How did you sneak out, anyway?" Susan demanded, immediately taking Lucy's hand and leading her to a fire. "Never mind, I don't need to know. Well, it's settled, anyway. You're going back as soon as I can find someone to escort you."

"I'm _not_ going back," Lucy said defiantly, pulling out of Susan's grip and crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm going to help you find Edmund. He's _my_ brother too, you know."

Susan sighed and fought the urge to shake her sister until Lucy's teeth chattered. "I don't have time for this, Lucy. It's too dangerous for you to be wandering out here. You're lucky you haven't been killed by a bear! I'm sending someone to bring you back to Caspian and you're going to _stay there._"

"I wish you wouldn't try to sound like Mother," Lucy said nastily, stamping her foot. "Maybe then, Edmund wouldn't have run away."

At the look on Susan's face, Lucy immediately regretted her words. Fuming, Susan pinched Lucy's left earlobe between thumb and forefinger and yanked, ignoring the little girl's squeak of pain.

"You wicked girl!" she cried, tugging mercilessly on Lucy's ear and clearly at the end of her patience. "You'll do as you're told and return to the camp or by the Lion, I'll drag you back by the hair!"

With a wrench, Susan let go and Lucy fell back with a whimper. It wasn't the first time her elder sister had used force to keep her in check, but it still stung to be humiliated in front of the entire search party. Bottom lip trembling, Lucy ran away and hid herself behind a tree, dutifully followed by a concerned Reepicheep, who had taken quite a liking to Lucy.

………………..

………………….

Peter didn't know what was worse, the sadistic fury in the king's eyes which promised a dreadful fate for him, or the inexplicable pain that crossed Miraz's face. For so long, the king stared at him, accusing him with dark eyes. The floor was cold beneath his knees and the guards were holding his arms so tightly behind his back that Peter thought they would break.

"Me and my men have searched the dungeons and the entire castle," reported one of the guards. "The boy is nowhere to be found."

Peter remained silent, triumphant that Edmund had gotten away.

"Well?" demanded the king, glaring down at Peter. "Where has your brother gone?"

"I don't know," Peter said, shrugging insolently.

With an angry growl the king stepped forward and struck the boy in the face. Peter gasped in pain from the blow, but stared defiantly back up at Miraz. He spat blood from his mouth, letting the red droplets stain the king's boots. However, secretly, Peter was more shaken than he would have liked to admit. It had been ages since Miraz had laid a violent hand on him and to see the king so angry was quite frightening.

"Don't play dumb with me," Miraz snarled. "My men found you in your brother's cell, pretending to be the prisoner by wearing his clothes! You've obviously broken him out, somehow. I ask you again, _where is he_?"

"Far away from here, if there's any luck to be had," Peter said simply, staring up at the king with a neutral expression. A murderous look came over Miraz's face, but whatever the king was going to do next was interrupted by the hasty arrival of General Glozelle.

"Your majesty," said the general, bowing quickly. "I have just received a report that there has been a shipment of arms departing from the castle at dawn. The gate was opened to let the cargo through and perhaps the boy escaped then."

"I see. Send a message to the men guarding the shipment and have them immediately send out search parties," Miraz said.

"But my king," Glozelle protested, "surely it is more important that the shipment arrives on time to aid our troops. The boy is only one prisoner and to send out search parties would be a waste of resources…"

"Do not question my orders, general," said the king in a voice of deadly calm. "I've had enough of insubordination lately."

At the king's tone, Glozelle bowed in acquiescence.

"And another thing, general. Find the guards that were on watch last night and have them executed for treasonous misconduct."

Peter jumped up at this, struggling against his captors. "No, wait!" he cried out, aghast. "The guards did nothing wrong! I was the one who drugged them. They tried to stop me. It wasn't their fault that Edmund escaped!"

"That was not their crime," Miraz growled, glaring down at Peter. "They are being executed for having touched you."

Peter stopped struggling, wide-eyed. He flushed in humiliation as he realized what the king was talking about. His skin crawled and he felt so dirty.

With a curt nod, Glozelle turned on his heels and left to do the king's bidding, sparing Peter an emotionless glance.

"What should we do with him?" asked the guard that was holding Peter, giving the boy a shake.

"Take him to the keep," said Miraz calmly. "I will decide what to do with him later. Right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to."

They dragged Peter up and started to pull him away. "I would rather rot down here than be with you!" he spat as bitterly as he could, but the almost-wounded look on Miraz's tired face nearly made him ashamed. The king looked at him almost as if Peter had somehow betrayed him, and that look was the last thing Peter saw before they dragged him out of sight.

They took him to the central tower of the castle, Miraz's keep. Peter couldn't help the fear that ran up his spine as they opened the heavy door and threw him into a dark room. He had heard horror stories about the innermost dungeons in Miraz's house, about how those who were thrown in never came out again, and how the cells were haunted with the spirits of the dead Narnians.

The guards muttered about how Peter should have at least been flogged, and they slammed the door shut. He was almost in complete darkness and had to keep his arms in front of his face so as not to bump into the walls. He tried to keep his breathing level, so as not to bring on a panic attack. As he walked around the cell, his foot bumped into a set of chains.

Peter squinted into the dark, feeling with his hands. He nearly screamed in shock when he touched the bare bones of a human skeleton, the poor remains of one of the king's prisoners.

………………….

………………………

Lucy was dreaming of Peter. In he dreams, he was twelve again, and their parents were still alive. She dreamt of how joyfully he would laugh and how warm his embrace was.

Someone was shaking her roughly and Lucy woke with a grunt. The first thing she noticed was how damp and uncomfortable she was, sleeping on the ground. She looked up from where she lay and saw Susan's anxious face above her.

"What is it?" she grumbled, still surly at having been chastised before.

Instead of speaking, Susan brought a finger to her lips and motioned for silence. Lucy immediately noticed the lines of tension in her sister's face and she knew something had happened. Susan gestured towards the line of trees towards Lucy's left.

Looking in that direction, the little girl at first didn't see anything, but then, as her eyes adjusted, Lucy could see many pairs of glowing red eyes peering menacingly out from the dark. Listening carefully, she could hear raspy growls and eerie chuckles coming from amidst the trees.

Lucy sat up with a horrified gasp and Susan quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling any further cries.

"Listen to me carefully," Susan spoke against her ear, and Lucy noticed that Susan was fully armed with bow and quiver, and that the rest of their search party were all awake and standing with weapons in hand. "As soon as I give the order to attack, run as fast as you can. Head south, back to Caspian's camp. Don't look back."

Knowing that it was no time to argue, Lucy nodded shakily and gave Susan's hand a squeeze.

"Good girl," Susan murmured with a small smile that was almost lost in the dark. "Get behind me."

Trying to control her breathing, Lucy disentangled herself from the blankets and stood, edging herself behind her sister. Susan pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it, aiming it at where the dark creatures were obviously lurking. The Narnians on her side tensed up, staring straight ahead and waiting for the attack.

The growling was growing louder and suddenly, there was a vicious snarl. From the shadows, a large werewolf leapt out.

"Now!" Susan shouted, and immediately loosed her arrow at the charging beast. Lucy didn't wait to see if Susan's aim was true. The girl turned on her heels and ran, just as Susan's soldiers charged forwards with a collective battle cry.

Lucy could hear horrible sounds behind her as she fled, feet nearly slipping on the frozen ground. Amidst the clanging of steel and the twanging of bows, there were awful snarls and roars of the beasts intermingled with shrieks and shrill laughter. She ran towards the south, but then stopped, panting, and looked back.

It was a horrific sight. Monsters, deformed and bent, were attacking Susan's soldiers. The enemies bore no weapons, but fought with fangs and claws that were already crusted with dried blood. Lucy could smell rotting flesh and unwashed bodies, and almost gagged. Susan's people were severely outnumbered, and taken in an ambush, they were loosing.

Lucy screamed when she saw a giant ape-like beast seize Susan in a violent embrace. Her sister cried out in pain as the beast bit into her neck with filthy teeth. Blood ran down the struggling girl's neck and into her collar. Susan was trying to reach for her knife, but her arms were pinned to her sides.

"Susan!" Lucy yelled, forgetting her fear. Her feet were moving before she even knew what she was doing. Frantically, Lucy ran back towards the fray, her two bare fists her only weapons.

With a cry that was half of terror and half of fury, Lucy barreled into the monstrous simian, who staggered under the unexpected attack. With a sickening slurping sound, the beast raised his head from Susan's wound to glare ferociously at Lucy.

With another scream, Lucy assaulted the thing with her fists but the monster merely gave a flick of its powerful wrist and knocked Lucy off her feet. The girl was lifted off the ground and thrown backwards.

Luckily, the ape had been distracted long enough for Susan to free one of her arms. With a vicious jab, Susan speared the monster in the eye with two fingers and the ape released her with a howl of pain. Ignoring her own wound, Susan quickly drew her knife and drove it into the neck of the creature.

Not bothering to retrieve the knife as the ape fell, Susan, with a snarl of anger on her face, drew an arrow and shot it into the heart of a vampire who had grabbed onto Lucy.

"Lucy, get out of here!" Susan shouted, before whirling around and beating back a cackling goblin with her bow.

Lucy tried to get up, only to find her ankle caught by the vampire who still had Susan's arrow in its chest. Even in death, the monster was leering and baring its fangs, pulling the struggling girl towards his gnashing teeth. She screamed and kicked and finally broke its grip.

She got up and tried to run, but all around her was blood and death and screams of terror. Tears stung her eyes as Lucy tried to find a way to turn.

Out of the chaos, Susan appeared and grabbed her arm. "Retreat!" Susan was yelling, bloody sword held high. "We are overtaken! Retreat, retreat!"

Susan ran, fingers clamped around Lucy's arm and Lucy ran with her. The howls of the creatures followed them, but were growing fainter as they dashed through the woods. It almost seemed as if they would get away safely.

Then, the ground _exploded_ under Lucy's feet and she screamed as Susan lost her grip. Out of the earth itself burst more goblins, dark and evil-looking, brandishing swords that were made of black metal. The last thing Lucy remembered was Susan knocking her to the ground and covering Lucy with her own body before everything went black.

……………….

………………………

The next time Lucy awoke, she could hear water running from a nearby brook. She winced, feeling a sore bump on her head, and sat up. She looked around frantically and was relieved when she saw Susan nearby, ragged and still wounded, but otherwise alright.

Susan had slipped halfway out of her dress and was washing her wound with water from the brook, face scrunched in pain.

"Where are we?" Lucy whispered.

"I don't know," Susan replied.

"Where are the others?" Lucy asked, looking around. They were alone.

"We got separated," Susan said, and Lucy could see how tense and angry her sister was. "Go back to sleep, Lu. I'll try to find our way when it gets lighter."

Her head sore, Lucy fell asleep again without much protest. She hadn't slept long before Susan shook her awake again.

"We have to keep moving," Susan whispered urgently. "I can hear _them_ trying to sneak up on us."

They walked through the woods, Lucy often having to support Susan who was weak from blood-loss. Susan tried to navigate using the stars, but the sky was overcast. It was dark and cold, but they dared not stop to rest, for fear of the creatures finding them again. Lucy could hear occasional snarls and eerie murmurs coming from the woods all around them.

When morning arrived, Susan was as lost as ever. The mist made it hard to see around them, but they kept walking throughout the day, not daring to stop. They hoped to find the rest of the Narnians, but they saw no one, only the bright eyes of the hungry beasts.

"What are they?" Lucy whispered as they trudged through the snow, asking more to distract Susan from the pain than from actual curiosity. Her sister was not looking well. Though Susan had sustained no serious injuries except for the bite, she was pale and her lips had taken on a sickly gray color. Cold sweat colored her forehead and she often shivered.

"They are Narnians," Susan ground out, teeth gritted to stave off her discomfort, "or _were_, anyway."

"Narnians?" gasped Lucy.

"Yes, talking beasts. Long ago, when the Telmarines attacked, they were driven into the wilds. Many of them were half-dead from the scourges of war. So many of them died. Most that were left alive hid and tried to survive, holding on to their hope and wisdom.

But some of them went mad. The Telmarines burned the woods, destroying their homes. There was no food, no shelter, and in their desperation, they turned to devouring each other. They lost their minds with the horror of their own deeds, and retreated into the darkest parts of the woods. They became monsters, witless, unable to talk…"

With a gasp, Susan broke off. She stumbled and nearly fell. Lucy caught her sister and steadied her. Susan looked ready to faint.

"Were they followers of the White Witch?" Lucy asked quickly, trying to keep Susan talking and conscious long enough until they reached safety.

"Not all of them," Susan murmured. She stumbled again and fell to the ground with a pained groan.

"Lucy, we have to stop," she said, her voice strained.

"What's the matter?" Lucy asked nervously, tentatively peeling back the crude bandage that held Susan's wound closed. She gasped when she saw that the gashes had turned black. The wound looked poisoned and the surrounding skin was red and broken.

"Lucy…" Susan moaned softly, reaching out a hand, as if for help. Her face had taken on an alarming shade of white and she was shaking. Lucy was on the edge of tears, not knowing what to do.

There was a loud snarl from somewhere near, and Lucy cried out in terror. The beasts had caught up with them.

"Susan, we have to go!" she cried. Hastily, Lucy tore off a strip from her sleeve and re-bandaged the wound. She heaved Susan up and the two of them broke into a slow run. Before they could get far, wolf jumped out in front of them from behind a large tree.

Lucy shrieked as it snarled at them, baring dripping fangs. It its eyes were unnaturally bright and its fur was matted with blood. The animal's flanks were skinned and bleeding, and Lucy could smell decaying flesh. With a roar, it leapt at them.

Lucy screamed. In a flash, Susan had shoved her down and Lucy hit the snow-covered ground with a grunt. All she saw was a spray of snow as Susan twisted gracefully to avoid the wolf's jaws. There was a musical _twang_ and a heavy thud.

Trembling, Lucy stood. The wolf lay several feet away, dead, with an arrow buried in its heart. Susan was kneeling with bow still in hand, her mouth open in a grimace of pain.

There was no time to recover. There were more noises from around them, and Lucy could see their shadows emerge from the trees. Without a word, Susan grabbed Lucy's arm and they set off.

"Don't look back," Susan ordered tersely. Yet, morbid curiosity forced the girl to turn her head. She saw more creatures, deformed and beastly, coming forward. With growls of hunger, the creatures fell upon and devoured the dead wolf. Lucy forced herself to turn her head away, lest she be sick.

They ran through the woods, Lucy awkwardly supporting Susan. The elder girl, so close to keeling over a moment ago, was spurred on by adrenaline.

A stroke of luck brought them to an outcrop of rocks.

"Look, a cave!" cried Lucy, pointing. "Maybe they won't follow us up there!"

Struggling, the two girls clambered up the rocks and into the cave. Panting for breath, Susan collapsed to the cave floor. When they heard no sound of their pursuers, they let themselves rest.

With the sticks that had been blown in by the wind, Lucy managed to start a small fire. It wasn't much, but it warmed their shivering bodies.

She helped Susan out of her chain mail. Dark blood was seeping through the bandage and Lucy peeled it off and discarded it. She braced Susan against herself and tried to tend to the wound with more strips of cloth, torn from her dress.

"Lucy, I want you to go into the corner there," Susan said weakly, her face pale and sweaty. "Close your eyes and cover your ears."

"W-why? What are you going to do?" asked Lucy, eyes wide.

"Just do as I say, Darling," said Susan, and she sat up with a groan. She drew a dagger from somewhere under her cloak. Lucy gasped when Susan thrust the blade of it into the fire.

The little girl understood what was about to happen, and Lucy wanted nothing more than to crawl into the corner and squeeze her eyes shut. But she took one look at the anguished yet determined look on Susan's face and would not allow herself to shy away.

"Go on, Lucy," Susan urged, bracing herself against the cave wall and baring her shoulder with her free hand. "Don't look, now."

"Wait!" Lucy said, swallowing hard. "I can do it." She moved forward to take the dagger.

"No," Susan replied sternly. "Your hands are shaking. I can't afford to let you miss."

"Then I'll hold onto you," Lucy insisted. She moved so she was embracing Susan from behind, her own back pressed to the wall. Tenderly, Lucy laid Susan's head back to rest on her thin shoulders.

Her elder sister offered her a smile of gratitude, and touched the red-hot blade to the wound. Lucy clapped a hand over Susan's mouth as her older sister screamed out hoarsely. Her body convulsed, but Lucy held on tightly. She could smell searing flesh and Lucy had to grit her own teeth to stop herself from crying out.

The dagger clattered to the ground as Susan's grip loosened. They were both breathing hard and Lucy was weeping quietly. Still, the young girl gathered her strength enough to bandage the wound again. She then lowered her elder sister to the ground and made her as comfortable as she could. Then, with assurances that she would wake Susan if anything should happen, Lucy lulled Susan to sleep by stroking her hair.

Too soon, it became dark, and the creatures crawled forth again. Snarls of hunger and anger woke Susan up before Lucy did. Faces pale, the girls huddled together, realizing to the full extent, what danger they were in.

"Oh, Susan, look!" Lucy suddenly cried, jumping up. "There's a way out!" She got up and crawled over to the back of the cave. There was a small opening, wide and tall enough to escape through if one was stooped over. She could see open air beyond it.

"There are loose boulders here," Lucy called over to Susan, who was struggling to strap on her weapons. "We can get out and roll the rocks to block the entrance, so they won't follow us!"

"You go," said Susan grimly, stringing her bow.

"Not without you!" Lucy cried, whipping her head around to look at her sister. Susan looked frightening, pale as death with limp black hair falling around her face.

"Lucy," said Susan softly, "I can barely stand. I'll only slow you down."

"You're being stupid," snapped Lucy. "I'm not leaving without you and you can't make me!"

"Alright," sighed Susan, getting up on hands and knees and moving towards the back of the cave. The snarls were getting louder now. They could hear the scrabbling of claws on the rocks.

"You first," said Susan, giving Lucy a little push. Relieved that her sister wasn't going to stay behind, Lucy made herself small and crawled out the narrow opening. She came out onto a snowy hill that was littered with broken stones. Panting, Lucy stood up and turned around to help Susan.

There was an awful grinding noise and to her horror, she saw her sister, still inside, rolling a heavy boulder over the cave opening.

"Susan!" Lucy cried, dropping to her knees and trying to push the rock out of the way. "What are you doing?!"

"Run, Darling," came her sister's muffled voice. "Run as fast as you can. The rock won't hold them forever, but I'll hold them off as long as I can. Go, now!"

"No, Susan, don't do this!" Lucy wailed, hitting the cave wall with her fists. Through a crack between the cave and the boulder, Lucy saw her sister calmly rising onto one knee and notching an arrow to her bow.

"Go now!" Susan yelled from within, just as she loosed the arrow. There was a terrifying screech from inside the cave, and Lucy could see the cave walls splatter with blood.

With a sob, she got to her feet and ran.

………………………

…………………….

There was a ghost in the room, he was sure of it. Peter could feel its icy presence. He buried his head deeper into his drawn-up knees, trying to hide away from the cold.

The cold was like a palpable thing. It wrapped around him like a frigid blanket, entered his skin, made him freeze. Peter was painfully reminded of the first time he had been imprisoned in Miraz's dungeons.

How long had he been down there? Days? Weeks?

He thought he heard ghostly laughter and closed his eyes tightly. _It's not real_, he told himself, whispering the words over and over to calm himself. _It's just my mind playing tricks on me. There's nothing here…_

He felt an icy finger brush against his cheek and jerked his face up, terrified. He almost screamed when he saw the specter grinning at him, pale and ghoulish. Frozen with fear, he couldn't move, couldn't even breath.

The ghost was corpse-like, white as death with long black hair, dressed in a white shift that was stained rusty-red with blood. A wreath of rotting yellow flowers rested on her brow, like some kind of decaying crown. She smiled, and it was horrible to see her broken teeth, yet she was still frighteningly beautiful and so familiar that Peter's heart ached.

Without realizing it, he had scrabbled backwards on hands and knees until his back hit the wall, not even caring that he had accidentally kicked out at the skeleton and broke it with his foot.

"Come to me, my king, my lover," she sighed. "Oh, how I have missed you…"

The ghost spread her arms and glided towards him.

He couldn't speak, he couldn't move. It was only when she wrapped him in her frigid arms that he snapped out of his stupor and screamed, but it was muffled as she pressed her mouth to his in a deathly kiss.

It seemed as if she sucked his very life out. All the warmth left his body and all he could utter was a raspy wheeze. His eyesight dimmed.

_Away, away, fair ghost._

A warm voice broke through the veil of ice and chased away some of the cold.

Slowly, painfully, she let go of him with a sigh and the cold ebbed. Peter opened his eyes again and saw the ghost growing fainter and fainter, melting away into the darkness of the dungeon. He was gasping for breath, his face nearly as pale as hers had been, his lips bluish.

_Away, fair one. Your time will come._

Peter sat up, shaking uncontrollably with his arms wrapped around himself. Then he heard the Voice again and he thought it was his favorite sound in the world. For a moment, he wondered if it was the voice of his father, come back to life.

_Peter_, came the call. _Peter_.

"Who's there?" Peter called out, his trembling voice shattering the silence of the cell.

_Peter…_

"Where are you?" the boy whispered desperately, struggling to his feet and stumbling forwards, arms held out in front of him. He cried out in frustration when he bumped into a wall, feet tripping over chains. The voice sounded so close, yet so far, and all he could see before him were shadows.

"Why can't I find you?" he wept.

_Come to me, Peter. Have faith in me, and you will find me. _

The voice was all around him, and it wrapped around him like a shroud, protecting him from the cold.

_Come to me, King Peter. For far too long have you wandered the Shadowlands. Come to me and I shall wake you from your sleep…_

Peter closed his eyes and took a breath, letting the wonderfully warm words wash over him like water. They strengthened him, instilled such a bravery and hope in him that he was no longer afraid. Opening his eyes, he walked steadily to the dungeon door, no longer blinded by the dark.

For a moment, he wondered how he would get out. Wasn't it locked? Yet, when he touched it, the heavy entryway swung open as easily as if it were made of paper.

The fierce-looking guards outside were slumped against the wall, eyes closed in an enchanted sleep.

He stepped out into the dimly-lit corridor. He walked a ways off, and, as if by magic, a doorway opened in front of him, where there was nothing but brick wall before. It led into a tunnel, and the Voice was calling him from the end of it.

He followed the doorway, as if hypnotized. He followed the rich, warm, _kingly_ voice as if it were a light in the dark. He had no torch to light his way, but let the Voice guide him.

He walked through so many stone corridors, twisting and turning, but he never lost his way. The Voice was leading him deep underground, through ancient and secret passageways that were probably built when the very foundations of the castle had been laid, passageways that no one alive knew about, not even the king.

Then, finally, after he pulled open one last door, Peter was outside. It was dark, but Peter could tell that he had somehow made it outside of the castle walls. Snow was falling gently and covered the ground in a layer of white fluff.

His thin shoes did little to protect him from the wet snow and Edmund's borrowed shirt was no barrier against the chilling wind. Peter shivered and looked around, feeling a little dazed.

Then, his eyes lit up and he broke out into a happy smile. There, in front of him, stood a golden Lion and Peter knew that His was the voice that had called him.

There, was the Lion of the stories that Peter had loved as a child, the legend that Narnians whispered to each other while under the tyranny of their king, the name that instilled so much hope and faith, the presence that Peter had always felt in his dreams. How long it's been, since Peter had found the strength to utter that name!

The Lion walked towards him, and Peter noticed that His golden paws made no imprint on the snow. The boy slowly sank to his knees, trembling with joy and utterly humbled. Could he really be so worthy, to be able to see Him?

"Rise, Son of Adam," the Lion spoke, and His voice was everything Peter had imagined it to be, so rich and powerful and deep and ancient. With a quiet sob, Peter got to his feet and embraced the Lion about the neck, hands faltering and shaking, not quite daring to cling to Him, not quite sure if he was allowed.

"Aslan, oh, Aslan!" Peter cried, unable to find words to express himself.

He hid his face in the Lion's mane, unable to look Aslan in the eyes.

"Why do you hide away?" the Lion asked gently.

Peter found he couldn't speak. All the shame, guilt, longing, and helplessness he had felt over the past months closed his throat so that he could only make a muffled sound of distress. But somehow, Aslan knew all that was in his heart, without him having to say anything, and the Lion's eyes were full of kindness and understanding.

"Forget your shame, Son of Adam," He said. "Remember all you have suffered, not as shame, but as testament to your strength."

"But I lost my faith!" Peter wept into his hands, his tears falling freely.

"No, my son," said the Lion. "If you had truly lost faith, then I would not be here. You have called out to me in your most desperate time, even though you yourself did not realize it. Will you not look at me?"

"How can I face you, when you can see into my heart and know all I have been through? How can you love me?" Peter spoke through his tears.

"Never doubt my love, Peter," said Aslan, and there was a rumble in His voice. "And do not doubt yourself anymore. I have come to free you."

"Will you take me away from here, Aslan?" Peter whispered. He turned his head to look at the castle, shivering at the dark memories of all that had happened. It was a dark, looming shape in the night and its spires looked sharp and evil, silhouetted against the sky.

"If you wish it," said the Lion, looking intently into Peter's eyes, and Peter couldn't help but think that the Lion was somehow offering him a choice. "I have come to free you, but you must choose where you want to go."

"But… there are still people in there," Peter said hesitantly, lowering his face back into the silky mane. "_Narnians_. Children who are forced to be slaves. It… it doesn't seem right that I should leave and they should stay."

"Would you stay then, Son of Adam, to help them to freedom? If you so choose, I will take you to your sister and the Prince Caspian, and you need never look upon this place again."

The thought of being reunited with his lover sent a warm thrill through Peter, and the boy found himself miserably torn between two choices. How he longed to be free of this nightmare!

"Will I be safe," Peter wondered, "if I go to Caspian?"

"There is no safety promised to anyone in times of war," said the Lion. "But if you choose to stay, there will be more suffering for you, and it will be a long time before you may leave again."

"I wish I could be braver," Peter said mournfully, "so that I can do what is right."

"You do not need more bravery," said Aslan, and Peter could feel the Lion smiling. "Look back, Peter, and find your strength."

Once again, Peter turned his head and looked back at the castle walls. Every stone of the structure seemed to tell a lifetime of stories, and Peter was assaulted with memories. He remembered how frightened he had been when he had first been taken there. He remembered Jacob and how the kindly and strong the man had been, and how he had died to protect what he believed in.

Peter remembered, with warmth in the pit of his stomach, of how he had fallen in love with Prince Caspian within those very castle walls. He remembered the sweet face of Prince Rilian, and how much hope and joy the child had instilled in such bleak times. He ever remembered, with both loathing and longing, of the Telmarine king.

He looked once again at the castle walls and remembered what Miraz had whispered to him once, about how the ancient house of the Telmarine rulers was beautiful in its own way. Peter realized, as he knelt in the snow, that the castle itself could hold no more nightmares for him. He was no longer bound by its walls.

"I'm not afraid anymore," he whispered. "Whatever it leads to, I will stay."

"You have chosen well, Peter," said Aslan, and He breathed upon Peter. Peter stood, strengthened by the Lion's rich air.

"Will you help me?" he asked hesitantly. "I don't think I can do it on my own, sir."

"I will walk in with you," said the Lion. "Put your hand on my mane and we will be invisible to them."

Peter smiled in gratitude. He wiped his face on his sleeve, then laid a hand in the golden mane of the Lion. Together they walked back, but not the way Peter came. Instead, Aslan led Peter through the main gate and they walked through them like returning kings. The guards let them pass, oblivious to their presence.

At first, Peter wasn't sure where to go, but Aslan him through the grounds of Miraz's house, through courtyards and colonnades, the same journey that Caspian had taken once with Dr. Cornelius. They arrived at the innermost courtyard of Miraz's castle.

With Aslan by his side, Peter saw what the prince had once seen, and his face was filled with shock. Catapults, siege engines, and massive wheeled structures made of brick and wood stood silently in rows, the work and toil of the Narnian slaves.

"What are they?" Peter gasped, his voice shaky and wan.

"Machines of death," replied Aslan gravely. "Things that are made solely to destroy and kill. They are the creations of the king, Peter."

The boy let out his breath in a sigh, which became white vapor in the cold air. A tear slid down his cheek, even though Peter was sure he had cried himself empty.

"This is no war," Peter whispered. "What Miraz plans is slaughter. What _war, _righteous or no, should be fought with such… _monstrosities_?" The boy shook his head, closing his eyes in a grimace of pain._ "_I had thought that… that the king could have been a good man, that he was honorable, in his own way. That he could have known _some_ compassion. He has a son, after all. I even admired him for his strength. Was I wrong to feel that way?"

"To love is never wrong, Peter," Aslan chided gently. "But one should always know the _truth_."

Peter made a bitter noise in his throat. "I see the truth with my own two eyes. Miraz is a murderous tyrant, as he has always been. But I'm not afraid of him anymore, not anymore."

He turned to look at Aslan, fierce determination on his face. "I have to stop him, somehow. I have to make sure the king can't use these _things_, or what's left of Narnia will be destroyed… Aslan?"

Peter started in surprise when he saw that he was alone. The Lion was gone, disappeared into thin air. If not for the lingering warmth in his hand, where had touched the Lion's mane, Peter would have thought it was all a dream.

Yet, though the Lion was no longer physically with him, Peter had never felt stronger. Resolve burning in his heart, his face set in a grim mask, he turned back towards the machines and clenched his hands into fists. He knew why Aslan had left.

Peter had made his choice and this was a battle he had to fight by himself.

……………..

……………

Notes: I hope this chpater's ok! sorry it took so long, once again :( thanks to everyone for their wonderful reviews, especially my anonymous reviewers, since I can't reply! and plz plz leave feedback and lemme know wat u think!!


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

…………….

Chapter 22

The entire day, Miraz was busy at court. There wasn't a moment that the king wasn't badgered by war business. The Narnians, the reports said, were besieging the southern front. More news came of the once-beloved – and still beloved, outside of Miraz's court – Prince Caspian who had turned rebel and now fought with, no _lead_, the Narnian Resistance.

It was late at night when the king finally found time for rest. As soon as he was able, he had the heavy golden crown taken from his head and the cumbersome robe removed from his shoulders, and left to retire. As he entered the sanctuary of his rooms, leaving the guards outside, Miraz wearily rubbed his face with his hand. He frowned when he felt the wrinkled lines, and sighed in the gloom of the empty chamber. He felt a slight discomfort when he remembered there was no one there to greet him, so used he was, to the fair-haired boy who usually lingered by the window.

Impatiently, he called aloud for a servant to light the fire in the hearth. Still in the dark, the king walked over to the large oak desk and lit a candle. The yellow light illuminated the table top and at first, nothing seemed amiss. Then, the king grew aware that the drawer containing his private papers was slightly ajar. He pushed it back with a frown.

He had grown so used to seeing the boy standing at the window, gazing out into the courtyard as was his wont, that Miraz did not notice Peter at first. The king nearly jumped in surprise when he realized that he was not alone in the room, that Peter had in fact, been standing at the window watching him for some time.

The king had to choke back a startled noise as he saw Peter looking at him, pale hair falling over the lowered face. The boy's lean frame was silhouetted by the cold moonlight, and his skin seemed almost bluish. Miraz could see that the boy's fists were slightly clenched and there were tears clinging to his blond eyelashes, and realized that he had never noticed Peter so impassioned, so breathtaking, nor so frightening.

The boy had a look of anger, and such intense sorrow on his face, yet he said nothing. Somehow Miraz knew, without having to ask, just why Peter was there. The blue eyes were as hard and cold as glass, and Miraz felt all his secrets lay bare.

"How did you…" Miraz started in anger and shock. His eyes flickered towards his desk drawer and the papers that were scattered about over the tabletop.

"Did you… have you been…?" the king stammered, face turning red with the oncoming of rage. "You looked through my official papers?" the king demanded.

"I found what I was looking for," Peter spoke lowly, raising his hand and tossing a crumpled piece of parchment at Miraz's face. The king caught it, eyes widening as he recognized the document in his own hand, with his seal.

A small chill went through the king as he read his own decree, one that justified the building of the trebuchets and the ballistas, calling for more funds from the Telmarine nobles. In elegantly cool words, the letter described what actions were to take place, once the war was over. Namely, the grand extermination of the remaining Narnian population, civilians and soldiers alike, so that a "cleansing of the land" could commence.

"You used Narnian slaves to build your weapons," Peter said in a voice of quiet rage, as Miraz looked up. "And after you've won the war, you plan to use these _monstrosities_ to kill the survivors. Innocent people! 'Extermination of the undesirable,' is what's written in that decree, as if we were nothing but vermin. Oh why, why do you hate us so?"

Quickly, the king glanced at the mantelpiece, where he knew an ornamental dagger was mounted. It was missing…

The king set down the document on the desk, smoothing out the creases with his fingers.

"Not _you_," Miraz said, standing up and looking Peter in the eye with an unreadable expression. "It was never meant to include you. The entire wood I would have burnt, but _you_ I would have kept alive."

"I'm just as much a Narnian as the rest of the slaves you keep, the rest of the people that you're trying to wipe out!" Peter shouted.

"You are not like the rest of them, the uncivilized peasants, and don't ever debase yourself as such again!" Miraz snapped, coming out from behind his desk and walking towards Peter.

"My entire household is full liars and cheaters, ambitious men who would sooner murder me in my sleep than be truthful to me. All day, I live amongst them, those lying, scheming men. _You_ are the only one who I can look in the face and see you for what you are!"

"You can't-"

"My queen, my own wife, brings me no comfort as when I speak with you. Before she was a vindictive creature whose anger was roused at the smallest things. Now, there is nothing left of the woman but a mad, listless person who won't even look at her own son! You… you are the one I can stand to look at, at the end of the day. No, Peter, you are nothing like the rest of them. There is no comparison."

"The queen isn't well!" Peter cried. "She is your _wife_, and instead of spurning her, you should be-"

"No, not well, indeed. I have made sure of that," Miraz said cryptically, his voice low and unpleasant.

"What?" Peter gasped, going pale.

"A poisonous bark, ground up and administered daily in small amounts, by my order. Ironic, isn't it? She tried to poison you, and now she's dying slowly from poison herself."

"You've gone mad!" the boy cried incredulously, blue eyes growing large with fear and repulsion. And the king, indeed, did look mad as he approached the boy.

"My king, you_ can't do this_," Peter said desperately. "Every single crime against me, every lie, every hurt, I am willing to forgive, if you would only stop this! There is no honor or sense in what you propose. It would only be a slaughter of an entire people. If you do such a thing, you are the one who will regret-"

Peter's breath caught in his throat when Miraz reached out and touched his bare neck. The king's thumb brushed over the boy's racing pulse, pressing ever so slightly on the sensitive skin.

"No, my foolish boy," the king softly. "I can and I will. The pitiful Narnian Resistance will fall, and then I will make sure that there are no Narnians left to challenge my rule, save one. They will all die, Peter, all but you, and you will remain by my side, my slave my lover."

Peter's eyes, which had been pleading and desperate only a moment ago, hardened again, as did is heart. In an instant, Peter whipped out the ornamental dagger from his belt and brandished it with the blade against the king's throat.

"No, my king," he hissed. "Should any of this happen, _you_ will die first."

In response, Miraz chuckled amusedly, removing his hand from Peter's throat. "I did not expect a Narnian peasant boy to know much of sword-play," he scorned, deliberately stepping close so that the point of the blade just touched his own throat.

"Try me," Peter ground out, gripping the hilt so hard his knuckles turned white.

The king laughed again, lowly and seductively, eyes gleaming with malice. "Don't be foolish, boy. You won't kill me. You _can't_ kill me."

Closer and closer, he moved, and as expected, Peter faltered and took a step backwards.

"No, as much as you think you hate me, you are too much of a coward to use that dagger. Put it down," Miraz drawled.

For a moment, the boy wavered and lowered his arms. Then, blue eyes narrowed and hardened and Peter swung the hilt of the dagger up into the king's temple. There was a sickening _crack_ and a spray of blood. Miraz, eyes opened in shock and the man dropped like a stone onto the carpet.

He almost gasped at what he'd done and froze. He had little time to linger, though. The next moment, the two ever-faithful guards posted outside burst in, nearly kicking down the door. Taking in the sight of the fallen king and the culprit standing over Miraz with the dagger, the guards immediately advanced on Peter, swords drawn.

With speed and strength he did not know he had, Peter dodged the nearest attacker. He drove the heavy dagger into the guard's shoulder joint while wrestling the sword out of the man's arm, then with two skillful swipes, incapacitated both men.

Panting, Peter gripped the stolen sword, looking at the damage he'd caused. The two guards lay unconscious and bleeding on the ground, the king slumped just a ways off.

Hopefully, no one had heard the disturbance. Peter blew out the light and dashed from the room, making sure to close the door quietly. He started down the hall, making sure to stick to the shadows. Halfway to his destination, he doubled over with a groan and clutched at his arm. One of the guards had managed to pierce his left arm, and it was bleeding through his shirt.

Gritting his teeth, Peter tore a strip from his shirt and made a crude bandage. Thankfully, it was not his sword-arm. He would have to bear it.

The hallway was dark and cold, and Peter's breath was visible as a ghostly vapor. He snuck down the eerie corridor, trying not to let the silent suits of black armor daunt him. With his goal in mind and the strength that Aslan had breathed into him, he was no longer afraid.

Still, there were a few things he needed to do before he put his plan into action. He stopped before a familiar door and pushed his way in, knowing it was empty and grateful it wasn't locked. By the light of the opened doorway, he fumbled his way into the room and stopped before the dusty, empty bed.

A shiver passed through him at the memories of what had transpired within those silken sheets. With gritted teeth, Peter braced both hands on the side of the mattress and pushed until it fell off the frame and onto the floor. Underneath, forgotten, lay the tiny gold ring that he had hidden there, so long ago, it seems. Caspian's ring… and the vow of love.

Hastily, Peter took it up by the chain and drew it over his head, under his shirt.

Just as quietly, he left and headed in a new direction, the wing of the castle where the queen was confined.

There were no guards at the queen's door. Obviously, the king had decided that protection for the queen was a waste of resources. When Peter entered the room, Prunaprismia was asleep in bed, and the nurse sat dozing, in a chair. Laying his sword down, Peter gently shook the lady awake, turning his body so that she did not see his bloodstained shirt.

In a hushed voice, he bade the nurse hasten to the nursery. As the woman, spurred on by his urgent voice, hurried to the connecting room where the baby slept, Peter roused the queen.

As she mumbled through the drug-induced haze she was in, Peter managed to get her into a robe. With arms about her shoulders, not caring anymore that he was getting drops of blood on her, he walked her into the nursery.

"Something is going to happen tonight," he whispered to the nurse. "You must make sure that the queen and the prince are safe. Lock and barricade the door." The pale woman nodded, bewildered but too frightened to question him.

When he left the nursery, he heard the lock turn. Just as quickly as he had arrived, Peter left the empty rooms, pausing momentarily to throw the contents of the evil-looking brown bottle on the nightstand out the window.

With eyes bright and back straight, Peter felt his strength returning to him, and he quickly traversed familiar corridors until he was outside again.

Peter walked through the dark of the courtyards, eyes warily looking left and right for signs of danger. He fastened the sword to his belt, and tried to walk as naturally as possible, hoping that he would not arouse the suspicions of the guards. Luckily, Miraz had kept his imprisonment a private matter, and most of the king's guards did not hinder Peter as he passed, as they were quite accustomed to seeing the boy's nighttime walks.

He walked through the courtyards, through the once-familiar paths from the main part of the castle to where the slaves' bunkhouses were. He hid himself from the guards then, because he knew that even as the king's lover, he was not allowed to go there. For a moment, he leaned with his back against the stone wall, breathing deeply and trying to gather all the courage he could muster for what he was about to do.

"Fare you well, brave knight," came the ghostly whisper of a woman's voice, and Peter thought he felt a cold hand grasp his wrist. Yet, when he turned around, there was no one there, only the faint smell of rotting flowers. So, he continued on.

"Halt!" called the guards at the bunkhouse, when Peter approached.

"You will let me pass," said the boy, stopping in front of them, hand on sword.

"The king has prohibited any citizen from the slave's bunkhouse," snarled one of the guards, but they were both unsettled by Peter's steely voice and his regal stance. Without another word, Peter drew the blade and held it up in a stately salute, then pointed it at the two men in a clear challenge.

In response, they drew their weapons and attacked, infuriated by the Narnian's insolence. With a shout, Peter rushed forward and parried their blows, using his own sword to slice at leather and exposed skin. In seconds, they both lay felled at his feet.

He panted, and flicked the blood off from his sword. The locked and chained door of the bunkhouse loomed before him, and he was reminded of the time that he had spent there, behind those awful doors. New anger fueled his strength.

There was a heavy axe nearby, embedded into a block of wood, no doubt a leftover of that day's work. He dropped his sword and, grunting, Peter grabbed the handle with both hands and hefted the axe up. With a cry, he raised the axe high above his head and brought it down on the chains locking the warehouse doors closed.

There was a mighty clang and a shower of sparks and the steel lock broke, chains clattering to the ground. With another grunt, this one of exhaustion, Peter shoved at the doors until they opened.

The doors fell inwards, exposing the gray, tired faces of the Narnian slaves. There were several gasps as they recognized him.

By the weak light of the torches and the moonlight, Peter stood at the threshold. His hair shone like fire, his eyes were like ice, and his face radiated such nobility that all those within were awed. Peter held his sword high and spoke.

"I have come to free you," he said, his voice deep and strong. "Tonight, we will have a chance to reclaim our lives. Take up arms, my brothers, my countrymen, and we will shake this castle from within.

"The tyrant king uses you to build his war machines, ones that he will use to ravage our land. By our own hands, shall our labors be undone! We will break all that he has built. Anything made of wood and brick will not be safe from destruction tonight. Come! Take up your chisels, your hammers, and destroy what we have been forced to build, so that Narnia will be safe once more.

Break down the doors to _all_ the prisons, release all the slaves so that they may become free men! Leave no one behind!"

………………………

……………………….

Lucy was running. The wind tore at her hair, making the ragged strands fly out behind her. She barely felt the cold as her feet flew over the ground.

She could hear _them_, their scurrying footsteps. She could smell their rotting flesh. Her legs were aching and her lungs burned. The frost-covered ground was slippery and rough, and she tripped many times, tearing the hem of her dress, scraping her knees and hands.

For an entire day, she fled deeper and deeper into the woods, resting when she was too exhausted to run anymore. When she rested, her thoughts caught up to her and she wept for Susan. What had become of her sister?

"Please, please, let her be alright," Lucy whispered, over and over as she curled up against a dying oak tree. She clasped her freezing hands together in a vain attempt to warm them. "_Please_ let her be alright. Susan _mustn't_ die, she _mustn't_!"

She could hear far-off howls and the ever-present sound of claws clicking on the ground. The little girl clapped her hands to her ears and closed her eyes, hoping that if she just wished hard enough, her sister, who was mother and friend to her, would be beside her again.

When Lucy opened her eyes again, her hand was numb and cold. She saw that, without realizing it, she had drawn the shape of a lion into the frost. Somehow, she felt comforted and she slept, small body pressed tightly to the dying oak.

Hours passed before she was awoken by a snarl. With the type of wakefulness that only comes from being frightened out of sleep, Lucy jumped up, looking around wildly. There was a wolf, only a few meters away from where she was huddled against the tree trunk.

Almost instantly, the acrid stench of rotten flesh assailed her nostrils. The beast was limping, its fur was bloodied and matted. Its face was partly skinned, and Lucy could see the horrid musculature that lay exposed and infected. It was as if the wolf was rotting, decaying, even as it growled and walked and glared at the girl with blind eyes.

It was sniffing, sniffing, trying to make out where Lucy was. The girl, in her fear, had forgotten to breathe, and let out a shaky whimper. Immediately, the beast raised a bloody maw and jerked its head towards the sound.

She could no longer control her fear as she beheld that horrible face. With a scream that tore her throat, Lucy scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could, not caring where she was going. Her feet hit the frozen ground with too-loud thumps as she flew through the wood, barely missing the trees. Her blood was pounding in her ears so loudly that she barely heard the bone-chilling howl from the animal behind her.

The wolf was making awful noises as he chased her blindly, sounds that held the memory of human speech, but were mangled by growls and tortured cries coming from a decomposing throat.

Inevitably, with how carelessly the girl was tearing through the foliage, Lucy's shoe caught onto a tree root and she tripped, the momentum pitching her forward so that she fell hard on the ground with a pained cry.

Pain shot through her elbows and leg, but terror made her get back on her feet. She could feel blood under her torn sleeve, and was sure her there was blood in her hair as well. The growling of the hungry wolf was right behind her and not knowing how much longer she could run, Lucy climbed the nearest tree, desperately pulling herself up by the boughs.

The wolf came, howling, growling, and making all sorts of noises. With its useless eyes, it glared. It raised its torn muzzle up into the air and smelled. The scent of the girl, her blood, was there, but the wolf was frustrated.

First, it clawed at the tree trunk, jaws snapping dangerously close to where Lucy was desperately clinging. Then, when that yielded nothing, it began throwing its rotten, yet living, carcass against the trunk. The bark shuddered beneath the impacts and Lucy could hear the animal's skin tearing, its already broken flesh breaking more with each frantic throw. Tears running down her face, she pressed her hands to her ears.

She knew the noise would soon attract more of the monstrous beasts, and she would be dead. What could she use to fight them off? The knife that Susan had hurriedly pressed into her hand? Throw rocks?

She shrieked when the bough she was hugging broke with a sickening crack. Snapping off branches with frantically grabbing hands as she fell, Lucy hit the ground, the breath knocked out off her.

The blind wolf reared up in front of her, mouth wide open in a hungry gape. She lay there, clothes tangled around her and body hurting, and she couldn't scream, couldn't weep. The world seemed to shrink before her eyes as the hungry teeth descended on her.

There was a heavy, back-breaking thump as the wolf fell on her and Lucy gasped, eyes screwing shut. But there was no pain of razor teeth ripping into her neck, only the wet, disgusting feel of the wolf's body on top of hers.

With a shrill cry, she pushed and shoved at the furry mass until it rolled off. Sitting up, she saw that there was an arrow protruding the back of the beast. With a gasp, she looked up.

"Susan!" the girl cried, after a moment's shocked silence. Her sister was barely standing, and her dress was falling off one shoulder. The quiver was hanging from her frame with a torn leather strap and the few arrows left in it were already bloodstained. Hands, which had just been holding a bow now fell limply to Susan's sides.

There she was, bloodied, exhausted, injured, but _triumphant_ and alive.

Lucy rushed forward and grabbed her sister around the waist. "Susan, Susan," she sobbed, "I thought you were gone. I thought you'd died. I'm so glad…"

"No, dear," came the weary reply, "I couldn't leave you alone, now, could I?"

………………..

……………….

Like soldiers charging on a battlefield, the Narnians swarmed over the castle grounds. The doors to every bunkhouse that held the imprisoned Narnians were dashed open, ripped apart by many hands.

The newly-freed Narnians bore no swords, only tools. Driven into a frenzy by Peter's words, and the horror of knowledge that the king had brought such evil machines into being, the slaves charged into the atrium. With their tools, the Narnians smashed the brickwork, hammered out the bolts, broke the wooden frames of all the ballistas, trebuchets, every hurler, every heaver, until they lay in ruins.

They attacked every guard that tried to stop them, not fearing death so long as they died for the singular cause. More Narnians besieged the castle, breaking into the dungeons and releasing the prisoners. Fires burned, and the night was filled with the angry roars of the mob.

As chaos raged all around him, Peter rushed off into the castle. Fearlessly plowing through the battalions of guards that came at him, he cut his way into the living quarters of Miraz's courtiers.

The rooms were nothing more than a glorified prison, designed by Miraz to keep his courtiers, and likely enemies, within the castle. The current imprisonment was still in place, but the outbreak in the courtyard had every guard in the castle dashing towards the fight, and away from the chambers Peter was now heading towards, Lord Drinian's chambers.

The boy smashed the door down with his shoulder, wincing and gasping a bit at the pain. Lord Drinian was standing in the middle of the room with crossbow in hand, still dressed in nightclothes, obviously startled out of bed by the commotion.

"Drop it," Peter snapped, pointing the blade at the man.

"Take one step closer," Drinian threatened, "and I'll shoot you in the neck."

Peter merely laughed, vaguely marveling at his own boldness. "Don't be a fool," he said coldly. "It's dark in here, and I've seen you at the archery range. You don't have the skill to kill me, only wound me, and a wound won't stop me from running you through."

The man's aim wavered, as did the look of determination on his face. "What do you want?" Drinian asked, not lowering the crossbow. "If you want to kill me, I won't make it easy for you."

"I want you to reconsider your allegiance," Peter said, not lowering his weapon either.

"You're mad," Drinian scoffed, looking at the boy as if Peter had grown a new head. "The entire castle is in an uproar, soldiers are dying outside because of something you've caused, and you want me to join you?"

"Your friend Erimon _died_ to stop the horror that Miraz would bring upon Narnia, and I'm willing to do the same. You _know_ the evils he would carry out if he isn't stopped. I know you are a good man, and I know you believe what Erimon believed in. Now, I ask you to choose, Lord Drinian, are you willing to fight, and perhaps die, for what you believe in?"

"It isn't so simple, boy!" Drinian spat, the hands on the crossbow starting to tremor. "If even the mere hint of treason has made the king keep his entire court prisoner in this castle, what do you think open rebellion would do? Do you have any idea what the consequences would be?"

"Look outside, sir!" Peter cried. "The war is no longer outside of this castle, it's within. Miraz's enemies are at your doorstep and if you are brave enough, you will join them! This is no time for tricks and sabotages behind the king's back, not anymore. Now," he said steadily, raising the sword so the tip was pointed right at Drinian's eye, "_drop the bow _and make your choice."

There was a tense silence, in which the captain looked as if he might change his mind. Then, with a slight wavering sigh, Drinian lowered the bow and Peter let the tip of his sword drop, heaving a relieved breath of his own.

However, the boy's next words were cut off with a gasp when the man suddenly raised the weapon again and shot an arrow straight at Peter's head. Blue eyes snapped wide open in shock and Peter felt his heart stop.

But, the impact never came. Instead, there was a cry and a dull thump from behind him, and Peter whirled around to see a Telmarine guard, who had a bared sword raised, fall to the floor with an arrow in his neck.

"Perhaps you were wrong about my skill," Drinian said with a smirk. Peter let his breath out in a loud _woosh_, and gave a small laugh.

"My apologies, sir," he said humbly.

With a short nod, Drinian lowered the bow and quickly moved around the room, pulling armor on and strapping on his sword. "How can I help?" said the man.

"You must gather all your men, your soldiers, anyone who is loyal to you. If any of the other Telmarine nobles and their men are in league with you then you must gather them together as well. We'll need all the help we can get. The gate needs to be opened, and when… _if_ any of the Narnians make it out, they will need sanctuary. Can you lead them to safety, Lord Drinian?"

"I will do my best."

…………………………………..

………………………….

It was near dawn when the fight – the _riot_ – was finally over. Drinian had commanded all his men to rebel, knowing full well that he was turning traitor, and that he would never return to the life he once had.

The gate had been opened, and the remaining Narnians, who had not been slaughtered by Miraz's soldiers, managed to escape. They were led by Lord Drinian, and they were led to safety.

Peter, like many others, was not quite so lucky. The king, having recovered from his injury, had immediately risen to command his troops. As quickly as possible, Miraz had the entire battalion of archers raining down arrows at the mob. The Telmarine soldiers struggled to shut the gates, and the gates closed with Peter still in the castle.

The fight was over in minutes, as soon as the iron doors were shut. The remaining Narnians were no match for the Telmarine infantry. Soon, the sun rose and bathed the carnage in a rosy light.

He was a mess when they finally subdued him. Dirty blond hair hung raggedly around his face. His clothes were torn and dirty and his cheeks were stained with blood. Yet, blue eyes still burned with ferocity, even as they clapped him in irons and forced him to his knees.

"The king wishes to see the prisoner," Glozelle said in a weary voice. The general did not look his best. There was a large cut along the side of his face and his armor was blood-stained.

The guards who held Peter refused for a minute, their eyes vicious and angry, obviously wanting to drag the boy away and treat him properly. Yet, the General was instant, and the guards had to obey. So, they hauled him back to the castle, not bothering to be gentle with him along the way.

"Get out," Miraz immediately ordered the guards, as soon as they dragged Peter into the king's rooms.

"But, Your Majesty…" one of them protested.

"_Get out_."

"Sire, you should not be left alone with…"

"I said OUT!" the king roared, with a furious gesture of his hand.

They left in a hurry, leaving Peter slumped on the floor, panting. The boy quickly righted himself, exhausted, but still defiant, staring bravely into the king's eyes. Peter noticed, with some satisfaction, that Miraz still bore the bruise on his left temple.

For a moment, the king was rendered mute with rage, as if he was too dumfounded at the magnitude of Peter's actions to react properly. Then, with a snarl, Miraz raised an arm and brought it up to strike the boy. Miraz was shocked, however, when before the blow could land, Peter lashed out and knocked his arm away with a snarl of his own.

The king stared as the boy bared white teeth and raised his fists. Miraz almost laughed in shock.

"Go on, hit me again," Peter challenged, blue eyes flashing and hands clenched tightly in front of his face. "I'm not afraid of you anymore. In fact, I don't think I ever _was_."

Miraz chuckled. "Impressive," he said lowly, dark eyes looking over every inch of Peter' tense body. "I must say, you have more of a backbone than my nephew ever did."

"Don't talk about Caspian!" Peter raged and dared to shove at Miraz, pushing the king back a few paces. "He was a better prince than you ever were a king!"

The king laughed again, coldly, but his eyes grew blacker with rage. "You have no idea what you've brought down on your own head, boy. Do you have _any _idea of what you've done, and what consequences will follow? My entire battalion, the siege engines that took months to build, lie destroyed and useless because of you!"

"What are you going to do?" Peter hissed, an ugly, sardonic smile twisting his fair face. "Have me flogged? Tortured? _Killed_? What can you do to me? What _haven't_ you done to me?"

At these words, Miraz felt such a fury rise in his chest that he could barely control the roar that left his mouth. Before the boy could blink, Miraz struck him full in the face, making Peter stumble backwards and crash into a table.

"You fool," Miraz raged, as Peter struggled to stand again. "You think you know pain? Trust me, those few days you've spent in my torture chambers are _nothing_. You think you've suffered at my hands? No, no, you have no idea!"

Peter hit him then, with a wordless cry. He caught the king in the face with his fist. They fought brutally, then, Miraz ruthlessly grabbing at his neck, strangling, wrestling, punching, beating, and Peter fought back with thrill and desperation. They broke the furniture in the room, scattering priceless things on the floor in shards. There was no dignity, no finesse, just plain, animalistic violence.

Peter laughed manically, not even recognizing his own voice as red dripped from his mouth, his knuckles covered in bruises.

Finally, the collapsed of his own accord, slumping to the carpet with a gasp. Miraz was on top of him, ringed hands around his neck, and he was being choked again. He writhed, legs kicking out, trying to breathe, but found no purchase. Black dots started to creep into his vision and his lungs were on fire.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he heard the king growl above him. The rings were so cold against his throat. "Your very breath taken away from you. Your life, seeping away. Was it all worth it, boy?"

Was this the last thing he would see and feel? Miraz's red, angry face and the cold, cold rings against his throat?

Eyes wide in panic, Peter uttered a rasping cry and started to go limp.

Slowly, the pressure started to lessen, and the pain grew less. Miraz had let go, and Peter felt wetness on his face. He coughed as air rushed back into his lungs.

The only thing he could see was Miraz black eyes, staring down into his own, and he saw nothing but pain. More wetness dripped onto Peter's cheeks from above, and the boy weakly brought a hand up to wipe at tears that were not his own.

Slowly, Miraz unwrapped his hands from around the bruised neck. The king's face was red and strained, full of emotion that wasn't completely anger.

Desperately, Peter coughed, hands fluttering against his own throat, trying to alleviate the pain. The horrible buzzing in his ears died down and he realized the king was speaking.

"Beg my forgiveness," the king said, almost like he was pleading, "and I will let you live. Say that you were forced to turn against me, say that it was Lord Drinian who forced you, and I will show you mercy."

Peter smiled faintly, through his pain. "You can't control me anymore," he croaked, and felt triumphant because it was true.

"I don't want to control you," Miraz said just as hoarsely. "I want you to _live_. If you don't recant your deeds, I will have no choice but to have you killed."

"You are a king," Peter said. He let his head loll to the side, dizzy. "You can do whatever you want, regardless of what I say or don't say."

"I may be a king, but _you_… you have done a terrible thing, Peter. Because of what you've brought about this night, even I cannot protect you from death. Don't you understand? You are an enemy of the Crown, now. My favor will not protect you from the verdict…

"Do you hear the commotion outside? There are men out there, crying for your blood. How can I protect you from them, king as I am, if you do not recant?"

"Then don't," Peter whispered breathlessly up into the man's mouth. His skin was tingling. "You will do as you must, just as I did."

Peter's eyesight cleared a little, and he saw that there was blood everywhere, smeared over the king's face. The king brought his hands down and stroked Peter's face. Peter felt faint, and so terribly weak. There was a kiss on his lips that lingered for far too long, and it felt as if he were being strangled again.

Then, stiffly, the king pushed away from the supine body. Miraz stood, straightening himself so that he looked majestic, and with a last look to Peter, called for his guards. In that moment, just before Miraz's men arrived, Peter saw a change in the king. Whatever warmth there was before, whatever twisted affection there was, disappeared. Eyes that had been pleading just a moment ago turned dark and cold. A look of calm hatred descended over the king's face, and Peter knew that he was being shut out from the Miraz's heart.

The guards came in, and they picked Peter up. They dragged him out and down, down, into the depths of the castle.

His vision was once again filled with dark cells and chains, and the rusty-moldy smell of the dungeons filled his nostrils. The voices were so loud, so angry, as the guards pushed him to the dirty floor. Someone grabbed his hair and pulled him backwards, so that his head was resting on a wooden block. For a moment, Peter thought they would cut his head off right there, and he was terrified.

Then, his wildly staring eyes caught sight of a metal rod, glowing red from the fire, being brought closer and closer and he understood that they were going to brand his face. He struggled and tried to kick out, but they held him down.

The brand, an ugly design of criss-crossed lines, descended on him. White-hot pain exploded on Peter's left cheek and the boy could smell his own skin burning. He tried to bite down on his lip, but he couldn't hold back the scream that erupted from his mouth as his back arched upwards in agony.

Before he passed into unconsciousness, he vaguely realized that he was now a political enemy, a prisoner of war. The brand on his face would remind him of such, for the rest of his life.

……………………….

……………………….

Caspian remembered the stories of battles that Cornelius had once told him. How the knights of Old Narnia had bravely fought in the name of Aslan, never afraid to die. The childish fantasies Caspian had created in his head of wars and bravery could not compare to the war he fought so desperately now.

Never had he felt his blood rush in the thick of battle as screams of triumph, screams of dying, surrounded him. Nothing he'd ever imagined could compare to the icy fear that ran down his spine when he was inches away from an enemy's sword, or the awful exhilaration he felt when he killed the other man first.

He thought for sure that he would die when Miraz's troops had surrounded the Narnians on three sides. Caspian had wanted, with shame, to lay down his sword and plead for his life – Wasn't he a Telmarine? Wouldn't he be spared? – to fall on his knees and beg, to hug the ground and hide his head, anything, _anything_, just to keep living.

Yet, it was with valor, and a scream half of fury and half of abject fear, that he leapt into the fray with sword held high. Though he was sick with fear, the Prince had rallied the Narnians to him that day, and they had won the battle. They looked upon him with admiration then, for who could denounce the Telmarine prince when Caspian had fought as bravely as the best of them?

Caspian thought it rained that day the first time someone died for him. The Narnian boy had just been another faceless, nameless lad, before he had stepped in front of Caspian and taken the arrow meant for the Prince. After the battle, Caspian found himself kneeling by the pale body, gently unfastening and sliding off the restricting helm to reveal a head of red curls.

Caspian had not wept when the noble centaur, Ironhoof, had fell in battle, but he wept for the Narnian soldier-boy. How strange it was, that someone who barely knew him, had died to protect him. Had it been out of loyalty? Of respect? Or had it been simply a mistake, a misstep, that the boy had saved Caspian? How strange it was, that a Narnian had saved his life from his own people! That the nameless boy had sacrificed more for him than his own uncle, his only family, ever had.

Caspian thought it rained, but the ground was dry and cold as he fisted handfuls of grass, gritting his teeth to stave off the tears. The rest of Susan's army had shown him no sympathy as they watched him weep over the dead body. But their eyes shone with new respect when Caspian rose only a few moments later, composed and calm, and helped to carry the wounded off the battlefield. The prince had shown grief, real grief, but had not let it conquer him.

Later, Caspian learned that the boy had been seventeen, and was named Peter. _Another Peter_, Caspian had thought, _another son named after the High King, in fervent hopes that perhaps, just perhaps, the King of legends would return from the dead to bring Narnia peace again._

It was after that battle that Nikabrik had challenged Caspian. He, and a group of Black Dwarves, had confronted Caspian in front of the entire camp, calling him a Telmarine trickster, accusing Caspian of using the Resistance to serve his own needs. With jeers and mockery and horrible words, Nikabrik called Caspian another Miraz, another tyrant.

"If we are to die fighting, I want it to be for _us_ and not for _him_. I say we do away with the prince and fight for ourselves!"

The rest of the dwarves on Nikabrik's side cheered loudly at the dwarf's words, but Caspian jumped up angrily. "If you knew me at all, you would not speak of such things," the prince snapped. "It's true, the Telmarine throne is rightfully mine, but I will never be another Miraz. Instead, if I regain what is _rightfully _mine, I can bring peace to Narnia and end this war. I fight for you, just as you fight for me. If you are against me, if you believe that all I've done to help _you _ win this war counts for nothing, then you are just an enemy to me as the same Telmarines who drove me from my home!"

Not surprisingly, the Black Dwarf and his kin were driven to violence by his words, and for a moment, the prince's life was in great danger. There was a terrible battle within the camp, a riot between Nikabrik and the rest of the Narnians. Surprisingly to both Caspian and the rioters, the rest of the army sided with the Prince.

The resulting fight was a blur in Caspian's mind, but he remembered the terrible sick feeling in his stomach as the bodies of ten or so dwarves were carried away afterwards.

Not much later, Reepicheep and his mice, along with the small squadron of Susan's search party returned with neither Susan, nor Edmund, nor the stowaway Lucy. When the despondent Mouse reported that their search party had been attacked and many had been killed, and there was now no news of Susan's wellbeing, Caspian saw the weary eyes of the remaining Narnians turn to him.

So many were dead, and the remaining looked so tired and so worn. They all watched him, the young men and women, the Beasts and the Centaurs, waiting for him to say something.

Perhaps Nikabrik had been right. The Black Dwarf hadn't been evil, just tired of his people being sacrificed for what he thought was a lost cause.

Caspian sighed. "I want to send a message to the king."

…………………….

…………………………..

It was when Susan stumbled for the fourth time that Lucy suspected her sister was losing her eyesight. All morning, they had been walking through the woods, the elder girl breathing heavily and sometimes leaning on the younger. The frost was cold under Lucy's thin shoes and the small branches and rocks on the ground made her feet sore.

When they stopped to rest and Susan's shaking fingers failed to strike the flint after many tries, Lucy finally took the tools away and made the fire herself. The little girl bit her lip and stifled a sound of despair as she heard Susan sigh. They didn't speak as they warmed their hands over the tiny fire, but Lucy could feel her sister's frustration, fatigue, and anxiety.

She checked Susan's shoulder, where the ape had bitten her. The skin around the wound had grown a poisonous color, and dark veins of black were spreading from it. Yet, Susan felt no pain when Lucy re-bandaged it with strips torn from her skirt. Whatever infection from the bite had numbed the wound, and Lucy suspected that the same toxin was now blinding Susan. Her blue eyes had gone hazy and dull.

Near midday, Susan bade them stop again. With eyes narrowed into a squint, Susan knelt heavily and carved a small niche into the ground. Into the niche, she pushed a stick.

"Lucy," she said, "do you see where the shadow falls? I want you to keep going in that direction. I don't know how much longer I can see and I feel my legs going weak. Just keep going, even if I can't go on anymore, understand? Keep going that way, and you'll reach Caspian."

An hour later, Susan collapsed against a tree, panting and pale. Lucy melted snow in her chapped hands and dribbled water into her sister's mouth, hoping to revive her. They trudged on, the elder leaning on the younger, and it started to snow again.

"Follow the sun," Susan kept saying.

In the midst of the swirling snowflakes, Lucy caught a glimpse of gold. It was fleeting, just something out of the corner of her eye. At first, she ignored it, but there it was again. It appeared between the paper-white trunks of the snow-laden trees, something large and golden which seemed like an animal. For some reason, Lucy felt an inexplicable wave of warmth whenever she would catch sight of it, as if the beast was like a passing flame.

"Oh look, it's a lion!" Lucy cried suddenly, stopping abruptly. "It's stepped out from between those trees, there!" She pointed frantically, trying to get Susan to see. Strangely, though the thought of a man-eating beast lurking between the trees should have terrified her, Lucy did not feel afraid.

"Don't you see?" she said, gently shaking Susan and pointing her sister in the right direction.

"No, I can't," Susan said rather angrily. Her eyes were dull and blank. "You're just imagining things, Lucy. We mustn't stop now. Keep walking!"

_Follow the sun, follow the sun,_ Susan kept saying, every time Lucy paused, but the apparition was clearer than ever now. It was indeed, a lion, and it was very clearly following them. Yet, Lucy did not feel at all alarmed.

It kept appearing and disappearing, not really there when she looked too hard, but there all the same.

"He wants us to follow Him," Lucy said softly, eyes bright.

"Don't stray," Susan said weakly, fingers tightening over Lucy's shoulder. "Don't lead me astray. Keep heading south. We mustn't get lost!"

And so it went on for about another quarter of an hour until finally, the Lion no longer followed them but stood there between two trees, and Lucy turned her head and noticed that the snowflakes did not touch Him, and His huge paws made no prints on snow-covered ground.

The Lion stood and stared at her, solemnly, silently, kindly, and Lucy could not walk away, though Susan's slurred voice was ever insistent in her ear. After a moment, the Lion turned and walked farther off, looking back over His golden shoulder at her before disappearing into the distance.

And Lucy made her choice. Taking Susan's hands, she started in the direction where He had gone, despite her sister's slightly frantic demands as to where they were heading. "Trust me," Lucy whispered. "Don't be afraid."

She took the path the Lion had, leading Susan stumbling and blind. It was bitterly cold, but grew warmer and warmer as they walked. Lucy wasn't quite sure how she knew where to go, as the woods were dark and clouds covered the sun, but somehow, she just _knew_.

Presently, they came to a clearing, and Lucy gasped in delighted surprise. The frozen ground was, against all possibilities, covered in lush, red roses. The sun came out and cast a golden ray on the clearing, and the light warmed the earth. There was no snow, only the rich, brown earth.

"Lucy," gasped Susan, who had grown still, "it feels warm. Where are we?"

"I don't know," said the little girl, smiling in wonderment, "but I think we're safe here." Still supporting Susan, Lucy walked them both into the gentle light and the sisters lay down and slept.

……………………..

………………………..

The king's hands shook slightly as he held the parchment in his hands. His nephew's words were brazen, yet still held a tone of nobility.

Miraz sighed and gently ran his hand over his face, which was still covered with many colorful bruises.

"What message does our Prince send, My Lord?" came the smooth voice of Lord Sopespian, from across the table. The Chancellor reclined in his seat, seemingly nonchalant to the destruction of the king's chambers. His mustache was elegant as always and he smiled easily, presenting a stark contrast to the frustrated-looking king with a disheveled appearance.

"He declares himself the rightful ruler of Narnia and calls me a usurper," Miraz snorted and slammed down the parchment. "And in order to prevent further bloodshed than is necessary, he has the gall to challenge me to single combat with him upon the field. He also demands that I release any Narnian prisoners of war, along with his tutor and Peter Pevensie, brother of Susan Pevensie."

"Well," said Sopespian after a pause, "it is quite obvious what your Lordship should do, then. Even with the damages done to our siege engines, our military strength alone is enough to crush them before the winter is over. There will be no need for such a challenge. Instead, you should demand total surrender from Caspian and his troops and claim that you hold neither his tutor nor the Pevensie brother hostage."

"No," sighed the king, folding up the parchment. He sat silently for a while, fingers playing with the faded paper. Sopespian looked on in interest, wondering what was going through Miraz's mind.

"Chancellor," said Miraz, "call off the search for the younger brother, Edmund. It is a waste of resources."

"But he would be a valuable war hostage, if we shall recapture him," Sopespian protested. "If nothing else, his execution would at least be deserved revenge against the Narnians for the murder of Lord Arlian…"

"No," Miraz repeated. "We ride to war tomorrow, and we will need all the troops we have. And as for a hostage, it seems, Lord Sopespian, that we have a far more valuable prisoner right here in my dungeons, the elder Pevensie brother. It seems I have previously underestimated Caspian's attachment to him…. Well, it shall be useful."

"What are you going to do?"

"Tomorrow, I march to war with the rest of the infantry. The prisoner will march with us. We will bring Prince Caspian the hostage he so greatly desires…"

……………………..

………………………….

The dungeon, as always, was dank and dark, the floors and walls slimy with filth. The place smelt of death and decay. The sputtering torch in the general's gauntleted hand did little to offer light and warmth as he made his way to the cell.

The guard posted at the cell heard the steady thuds of Gozelle's boots long before the general turned around the corner, and was standing at attention when the general came into view. The soldier, a rather young man, gave Glozelle a respectful yet nervous salute.

However, the good general merely gave the young man a curt, dismissive nod. Without a word, the soldier took a hasty retreat. Had he been in the king's employment longer, the lad might have stayed and questioned the general's eagerness to see the Narnian prisoner.

With the guard gone, Glozelle tucked torch into a nearby sconce, letting the flickering yellow light illuminate the otherwise pitch-dark cell. The forlorn, pale figure on the chamber floor stirred, and the only noise in the hallway was the hitched, tortured breathing of the prisoner.

The prisoner turned on his side and a head of dirty, matted blond appeared from under a trembling arm. A flicker of sympathy appeared in the general's eyes as Peter turned his pale face, wet with sweat and tears, upwards towards the light. The boy's cheek was marred by criss-crossing stripes of blistered flesh, dark red and ugly. The edges of the injury were torn and bleeding where the iron brand had scratched the tender skin.

Wordlessly, the general stooped down and reached between the bars, handing the boy a chemical-smelling cloth. With a weary, cautious look at the man, Peter uncurled himself and sat up. The boy had to grab hold of the bars to lift himself up, the cruel shackles on his legs rendering the limbs numb and useless.

"Put that on your face," said the General, as Peter took the cloth with trembling fingers, "or it will fester."

There was some sort of astringent on the napkin and Peter had to bite down on his tongue so as not to scream when he applied it.

With a sigh, the general sat down on the dungeon floor, leaning slightly against the bars. He did not look at the boy. They were silent for awhile, and Peter wondered if Glozelle was to be his confessor of sorts. Presently, Peter began to speak, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"I remember once, when I was a child, Telmarine soldiers came to my village," Peter spoke, his voice hoarse and scratchy. The general looked over at him curiously through the steel bars. "They were on a raid… and they wanted supplies and hostages. I remember they came at night. The screams woke me from my bed, and I was so frightened. I ran out of the house before my mother could stop me. Foolish…

It was the first time I ever saw someone killed. I saw two soldiers beat a man to death, drag his wife away even as she screamed for her husband, and then set fire to the house with their children still inside. People being dragged out of their homes, their cattle driven off, their possessions either taken or broken. I still remember the screams…

My mother hid us in the cellar, my brother, my sister, and the baby. My father was away, and he couldn't protect us. I… I had never felt so terrified in my life as I did then. I'd thought I would die. I'd thought my mother would die. Sometimes, even now, I still remember the screams. From the cellar, I couldn't even tell if they were animal or human, but they were awful."

Peter stopped speaking, his throat making a dry little rattle. He turned his head to look at Glozelle once more, dull blue eyes searching the general's face. "I know you are an honorable man," whispered the Narnian boy, his pale cracked lips barely moving, his eyes half-lidded in exhaustion. "How can you… how can you continue to serve Miraz, knowing what he does?"

Peter broke off into a coughing fit that aggravated the wound on his cheek.

Glozelle, whose expression had not changed the entire time, waited until the boy's cough dwindled down into a pained moan before speaking.

"Things… were never so difficult when I was a young man. Things were simpler then. I was a soldier, and I was loyal to my king. I served him as best as I knew how, King Caspian. There was never any question of… honor or such things. Loyalty to the king was honor, justice, valor, and everything else. Loyalty…" The general sighed heavily.

"Everything changed when Caspian died. My friend, my king, lay dying in his bed and I could do nothing, though he was as dear to me as my own brother. Even as he breathed his last, he made me promise to look after his son… and his brother. He made me promise to show the new king as much loyalty as I showed him, to protect him as is my duty."

"Things changed then, didn't they?" Peter said, his voice harsh and grating. He coughed again, chest heaving with exertion. The boy had slumped back onto the floor, arms wrapped around himself for comfort, the rag tossed to the side. "It wasn't simple anymore, was it?"

"No," whispered the General, shaking his head slightly. The man had a faraway look in his eyes, as if recalling some painful memory. "Things were never simple again."

The general looked at Peter's pale face and remembered, not the dying faces of Narnian soldiers felled in battle, or the frightened faces of the children in the villages. Instead, a deeper memory was stirred.

Glozelle remembered, the southern Telmarine farms and villages. He remembered the hot sun, and the peace-dwelling people, content with their lives. He remembered the faces of the young men as they received news that they would be drafted into Miraz's army, their faces as they were herded into groups for the long march back to the capital. So young, younger than Peter, younger than Caspian. It was that same expression, the utter bleakness and resignation that he saw on Peter's young, adolescent face. They had been so full of life! _He_ had been so full of life, and passion.

He remembered there would be one moment of silence as the battalion left the village, one moment of perfect stillness, before all the women and children would start weeping. The noise would follow the general as the company left, and leaving behind broken households, people who missed their sons and brothers.

Glozelle sighed again.

"General, what's going to happen to me?" Peter asked, after a while. Glozelle glanced at Peter and saw that the boy's eyes were wide and so confused.

"Do you know why I admire you, boy?" asked the General, ignoring the whispered question. "It's because after all… this," the general waved his hand in a somewhat casual motion, "all this bravery, all the sacrifice, the pains you were more than willing to endure, all this display of valor, I can tell that you are so very afraid deep inside. Despite whatever fearless façade you put on for the king, you are afraid to die, Peter."

Peter stared for a moment, then the corner of his lip twitched to form a weary smirk. "Of course I'm scared of dying," he said. "I wish I wasn't, but I am. I wasn't before, when I thought I had nothing left to lose, but now, now that I'm so close to dying, I find that I'm terrified. Does that make me weak, general?"

"No. It just makes you… human."

Peter sighed and gingerly brushed his fingertips over the burn on his cheek, wincing. "Well," he remarked dryly, "I suppose one advantage of dying is that I won't have to face many more people with this ruined face."

The general uttered a short laugh. "I didn't think that you were at all vain, Peter."

Peter coughed again, painfully, holding a hand to his mouth. His fingers came away bloody, and the boy sniffled slightly. "I think, general, that now, when everything is so close to the end, when all my work is done, I can afford to be vain. After all, I once had a lover, and I do like to think that they found me beautiful," he said, not noticing his slip of tongue, nor the general's quirked eyebrow.

"What's going to happen to me?" Peter asked again.

"Whatever the king sees fit," the general replied.

…………………..

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Notes: Notes: once again, I'm so sorry it's been so long! I hope people are still interestd in this story. As always, plz plz feedback!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy Holidays to all! ^_^


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: slight gore in this chapter

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Chapter 24

Edmund ran and ran over the freezing ground, ignoring his aching feet and sore muscles. His lungs felt like they would burst, but he kept running, even though the shouting of the Telmarine soldiers had long since faded. It was nearing dusk he was utterly lost.

Ever since he had escaped from the castle, he had been living as a fugitive. The clenching feeling of fear in his stomach was always there as he tried not to be caught. Panic was his constant companion. His days would be spent hiding in the woods and scrounging for wild berries. His nights would be spent awake half the time, worried that they would find him as he slept.

He had almost been caught that day, but had managed to outrun the two men. It was bitterly cold when he finally stopped, breathless. He huddled against a tree, trying to make himself as small as possible. The sounds of the forest frightened him. It was as if every bird cry, every branch blowing in the wind, was an accusation.

He nearly cried in frustration when he thought about how lost he was. Despite his promise to Peter that he knew how to get back to Susan, he had severely misjudged the terrain. Edmund now had no idea where he was.

Miserable and freezing, he curled into a tighter ball, feeling sorry for himself.

He couldn't remember when he had fallen asleep, but the next thing he knew, he was being awoken. There was a chill in the air, but it felt somewhat unnatural. There was a gray mist all about him and Edmund could barely see his own feet.

Slowly, he stood. The place was so quiet! Surely, this wasn't the same place that he had fallen asleep? Where was he?

He started walking, and walked and walked, all the time feeling as if his feet were being _pulled_ in that direction. He realized it was no longer cold, but there was a strange _coolness_ to the air that made his skin tingle.

The light was so dim…

There was a strange smell in the air, the smell of something that was horribly burnt.

As he was walking, Edmund presently became aware that there was a presence somewhere. He could feel heavy breathing, a deep sigh and inhale. He hadn't heard the noise over his own breathing and heartbeats, but now he was aware of footsteps. They were steady, deep, and seemed to make the ground rumble without being loud at the same time.

Edmund was frightened, for the _presence _seemed to be large, yet non-corporeal. Who was it? What was it?

"A-are you a ghost?" Edmund whispered, fearfully stopping in his tracks.

"Do I feel like a ghost?" came the answer, and the Presence came so close that he could feel the warm breath on his neck. Edmund felt so terribly frightened, that if he had been much younger, he would have started crying.

"Where are you taking me?" Edmund asked, for now he was sure that it was the Presence who was leading him through the misty woods somehow, _pushing_ him with an unseen force.

He looked down and saw that he was walking on some sort of powdery stuff. At first, Edmund thought it was snow but when he bent and picked some of it up, he realized it was warm and dry. _Ash_.

The mist cleared a little and he saw that he had come to a town. Or at least, it _was _a town.

The utter desolation of the place made him stand stock-still, unable to move. The charred, blackened buildings could hardly be recognized as houses. Every house, every shop, everything built by hands in this town had been burnt and broken. Shattered pieces of wood and glass littered the streets.

The handful of ash slipped from Edmund's numb fingers, trickling downwards to join the ash that covered the ground.

He took a step forward, then another. In a horrible trance, Edmund walked through the ghost town, eyes wide and unblinking. The blackened remains of the houses looked skeletal, and Edmund felt sick to imagine that the people may not have gotten out in time.

His foot caught on something that was sticking out from the ground. Absently, he kicked at it and felt it give it a little. Edmund looked down and nearly screamed in horror when he recognized a human arm.

With a cry of distress, Edmund dropped to his knees and scrabbled at the dirt with bare hands, trying to unearth the poor soul.

His hands stilled, when to his even greater horror, he spied another corpse a few feet away, mostly buried. Almost crazed, he dug deeper and faster, clawing through dirt, rocks and ash until the body was revealed.

Tears blurred his vision as he unearthed the child, her sickly gray face a mask of death. Though he had lived his life in a constantly warring country and was no stranger to death, he had never felt such pity as now, as he beheld the sorry creature that was once a Narnian girl.

"Oh, you poor thing," he sobbed, rubbing at his eyes with his dirty sleeve, trying to block out the image of her staring eyes. An even more horrible thought came to him when he imagined that it was Lucy's face on the corpse.

As tears poured down his cheeks, Edmund continued to grab and pull apart chunks of earth to reveal the second body, a boy-child. It was the lonely girl's brother, he could tell. Gently, he closed both pairs of eyes, letting his fingertips nudge the cold eyelids shut. With shaking hands, he brushed the dirt out of their mouths.

"They were buried alive!" he whispered in horror.

Standing up on shakyfeet, he let go of the cold limbs and walked up the hill. What he saw on the summit took his breath away. There they were, strewn across the ground in a macabre tableau.

All the men and women killed by arrows, lay dead in the streets in undignified heaps. Horses and dogs lay dead also, slain.

There was no fight, Edmund could tell. It was purely slaughter. The Telmarines had left no one to survive.

And the children… Edmund collapsed to his knees in a bout of nausea. Those children who hadn't survived the burnings or the arrows were _buried alive_.

Tears were dripping down his chin. He wanted to scream but he had no strength left.

"I… I never wanted any of this to happen," he whispered, as he felt the Presence come up behind him. Edmund knew now, who it was, and he felt so heavy with guilt that he couldn't say anything more.

"Do you see now, Son of Adam?" said Aslan, and Edmund could feel His breath upon his neck. "The madness and cruelty of the Telmarine king has not only destroyed these Narnians, but many others. Not just your family, but countless other families. If Miraz wins the war that your sister and her people are dying for, this madness will spread throughout the entire country. Narnia will become a dark place, and all her people will suffer, Narnians and Telmarines alike.

You gave in to your fear, Edmund, and aided the enemy. Know, my son, that if the enemy wins, _this_ is what will happen to all that you love."

"I… I just wanted to keep my family safe," Edmund said, shaking all over. He was unable to tear his eyes away from the scene of carnage. "I wanted Susan safe."

Oh, what could he say? All the excuses he had made to himself, all the reasons he had made to turn traitor, all the words turned to ash in his mouth. He bowed his head, waiting for the chastisement. Yet…

"I understand," said Aslan gently. "I too, want my family safe. Love, Edmund, is powerful and good, but you must not let fear drive your actions. Remember, Edmund, if you let your fears overcome you again, all may be lost."

"I'm sorry," Edmund sobbed, and he meant those words more than anything he had ever meant in his life. At last, he dared to turn and stare into the Lion's eyes. He cried then, as if he were years younger, and was not reproached for it.

After he had a good, long cry, Aslan finally bade him stand and follow Him. "Come," He said, "You have lost your way. Now, it is time to return you back home."

..........................

……………….

Lucy woke up feeling warm and comfortable. There was a sweet smell in the air and the light was rosy, as if the sun had just come out into a gray dawn. The feathery petals of a flower brushed against her cheek as she sat up.

She looked around and saw that Susan was sleeping peacefully next to her. In fact, the little girl had never recalled seeing her sister looking so peaceful. Susan's features were almost delicate, framed in waves of dark hair, her cheek resting on a nest of velvety petals.

"Lucy," called a warm, deep voice, and she thought it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

With a joyful laugh on her lips, she turned and jumped to her feet. There He was, the golden Lion that she had followed through the woods last night. She recognized him. Though she had never met him before, she _knew_ him as if he had been close to her all her life.

"Aslan!" she cried, happiness radiating from her youthful face. She ran to Him and threw her arms about His neck as if they shared all the love and friendship in the world.

He laughed joyously as she leaned into Him, and allowed her to rest her head against his heart. Lucy felt so warm and never wanted to let go.

After awhile though, Aslan stood. "We must wake your sister now, Lucy," He said gently.

"Of course," said Lucy, and she ran over to her sleeping sister. She shook Susan awake. "Wake up, Su!" she cried. "It's Aslan! We've found him at last!"

The Lion stood above where Susan lay and breathed upon her.

Susan opened her eyes, and the blue orbs were still hazy, unseeing. With trembling hands, she reached up and touched the Lion's mane. She ran her fingers through the warm fur, sighing.

"I've seen you in my dreams," she whispered. "Could it be… could it really be you?"

"And why should you doubt it?" asked Aslan.

"I-I never dared to think that I would actually see you," she said, voice soft in awe. "I hoped and dreamt and hoped, but never really _expected_… But here you are, and I… I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing," said Aslan, "for I know all that is in your mind without you having to speak it. Susan, let go of all your fears. Do not let darkness taint your heart. Do not let your shames hinder you. You have done well so far, and been far braver than can ever be asked of you."

"But my work isn't done yet," said Susan, growing agitated. "I must return to the Narnians. The Telmarines will be attacking any day!"

"There is no need to place the entire burden of this war only on yourself, Susan," said Aslan, and Lucy saw the golden eyes hold the slightest hint of reproach. "Prince Caspian has grown to become an honorable and great warrior. He is strong enough to take back what is rightfully his. Soon, this kingdom will become _his_ burden."

At these words, a somewhat bitter look came over Susan's face and she lowered her head.

"I know what you are thinking," said He. "That all the work you've done, in my name and yours, all the sacrifices you've made, will bring glory and honor to someone else."

"Can you blame me?" said Susan sadly. "All I've ever known is combat. Since I was a child, I've been in the middle of a war. My parents died for it, and I gave up my home and my life for it. I've fought for these people, and led them the best I knew how. Not a day passes where I'm not haunted by the terrible things I've seen and done… and I don't think I shall ever be rid of those bad dreams.

My own brother turned against me because of what I've become. I… I gave up everything I had, any chance of love or peace of mind, just so Narnia can regain her freedom. And now, when my work is near finished, all my labors laid to rest, it is the Telmarine Prince who shall reap what I've sown. It is _his_ kingship that I shall have to bend to."

The Lion laughed a warm, comforting laughter that drove away her sadness. "My dear," He said, "Imagine Narnia restored to peace, all her people living free and in harmony, this wounded country made whole and new again. Imagine a greater and more beautiful spring than you have ever seen. The trees will dance again, the rivers flow unhindered, and the sun will shine all the brighter upon the new land.

Should this come to pass, why should it matter who the glory goes to? All the toil and suffering that you have endured, was it not to ensure that this one dream should come to fruition? To be content with victory, no matter whose it is, _that_ is true happiness."

"Then… am I truly to be un-thanked?" Susan said forlornly.

"Fear not," said the Lion with a rumble in His voice. "None of your work has been unnoticed by me. I have seen your hardships, and my Dear, your time will come. Now," and here, His voice grew softer, "forget your fears and doubts, Susan, for you are a good and noble woman. Let me breathe on you, and forget your fears."

The warm richness of His breath blew over Susan's face and she closed her eyes. Her grayish complexion became healthy and smooth again, and Lucy, who was watching, thought that her sister never looked more beautiful.

Susan opened her eyes, and they were as clear as blue glass. "I can see you!" she whispered in joy. "I do believe I was blind before, but now… I can see you, Aslan!"

And she hugged her sister in joy.

"Lucy," said Aslan, and the girl turned to him with a happy smile. "Well done," He said simply. He breathed upon them both, and suddenly, both girls felt pleasantly drowsy.

"Sleep, children," He said. "When you awake, Edmund shall be with you."

At these words, Susan and Lucy lay down, lulled to sleep again by the scent of fresh roses. It was a good deal later when Susan woke up from a dreamless sleep. The first thing she noticed was that her shoulder no longer hurt. Peeling back the bandage from the bite-wound, she was thrilled to see that it was almost completely healed.

Blinking her sleepy eyes, she saw that her brother and sister were lying next to her, so peaceful-looking. Her heart ached to see him, after she had missed so much.

She awoke Edmund with a hand on his freckled cheek. When he opened his eyes to her, all words of reproach and anger died on her lips.

"I'm sorry," he said with tears in his eyes, and everything was forgiven with a warm embrace. They looked up, and there was Aslan pawing at the ground, bidding them to follow. There was much joyous laughter when He allowed Lucy to ride upon His golden back. Edmund and Susan walked on either side of Him, a hand in His mane.

He led them out of the glade and through the snow-covered woods until, little by little, Susan began to see familiar surroundings. He stopped them, then, and told them they must go back without him.

"I have further work to do in the darker parts of the forest," He said. "Susan, you must make your way back to Caspian's camp now, and keep your brother and sister safe."

"But Peter," said Edmund, "is _he _safe? Will he be alright? I fear he has gotten himself into danger on my account."

"Peter will come back to you in time," said Aslan. "And when he does, it will be up to his brother and sisters, and Prince Caspian, to help him find his peace."

Lucy cried bitterly when Aslan left. Then, with Susan holding Lucy and Edmund's hand, the three siblings walked through the woods with renewed hope in their faces.

………………………

……………………..

Peter's feet were weary. His hands were numb from being tied with the coarse ropes. He was so cold. The snow beneath his thin shoes was wet and icy.

The soldier who held the lead to his bound wrists marched him at a relentless pace and if he were to stumble, the painful pull of the ropes would jerk him back to his feet.

They had been marching for days now, the king and his infantry with Peter as prisoner. The rhythmic pounding of boots over the frozen ground, the metallic clinking of men's armor, and the more organic sounds of the horses were Peter's only comfort during the day's march. If he focused on such sounds, memorizing them, he found that he could bear more easily the sharp coldness of the wind, the gnawing hunger, and the pain in his feet. They were moving closer and closer to the war front, he could tell.

Miraz rode at the head of the battalion, a dark and solemn presence that was cloaked in black fur. The iron helm that he wore was like a grim crown that weighed heavily on the troubled brow. At the rear of the march, pulled by a line of horses, the looming form of the last remaining siege engine followed.

An order was called out at around noon, and the battalion stopped to rest. Peter sighed quietly in relief as he was allowed to slump down to the ground. He shivered, having been given no cloak to ward off the winter's chill. His guards pounded a stake into the ground, and bound the lead to his bonds to it.

Peter blew on his hands to warm them as he huddled against the trunk of a tree. He could see soldiers groaning with weariness as they sat down on stumps and rocks, removing the heavy bits of armor, starting fires. Rations were take out and handed around.

Usually, Peter was thrown a hunk of stale bread that was half frozen and if he was lucky, he got a watered-down bowl of the soldiers' leftover stew.

The boy was thankful for these short rests, since it was the only time he was allowed to catch his breath. He could stretch his limbs and walk as far as the rope permitted him to.

As he rested, he gingerly touched his cheek. Though the injury on his face did not hurt so much anymore, Peter could still feel it as if it were still red-hot, a glaring badge of his crimes against the Telmarine army. The guards usually left him alone, but he could always feel their eyes on him, angry and accusing. Peter knew, everyone in that grim procession probably knew, that the silent anger would no longer enough.

Soon enough, he was back on his feet and they marched on. That day, however, it seemed the soldiers were more vicious than usual. He could hear the hissed insults to him as he walked, which usually would have been kept silent. He ignored them, keeping his head down.

It was nearing dusk when the company made camp. They left Peter tied up near the outskirts of the camp, as usual. He was sitting by himself and twisting his wrists about, trying to loosen the ropes a bit when a few of the nearby soldiers started taunting him.

When the jeers and a few well-aimed pebbles produced nothing more than stubborn silence from Peter, the soldiers' anger only escalated. However, instead of a furious explosion, there was a much more subtle attack.

Peter could tell he was in trouble when about five or so men quietly came up to where he was sitting. They grabbed his arms and hoisted him to his feet. One of the produced a sharp dagger and cut his bonds, but they held him steady and Peter knew that he was being abducted from under the watchful eye of General Glozelle.

They gagged him before he could cry out and he was dragged off into the woods. A knee to the stomach made him double over and cough.

"Narnian scum!" one of the snarled, ripping the gag from Peter's mouth and taking the lad's jaw in a painful grip. "What power do you have over the king? What does he see in you, that you are still alive?!"

When Peter only glared at him with fiery blue eyes, the man punched him hard in the chest. As the boy gasped desperately for breath, the enraged soldier dug his fingers into the barely-healed burn on Peter's face.

"You are a criminal," hissed the soldier, as the boy screamed hoarsely. "An enemy.

My _father_ was a war hero, who fought and bled for the Telmarine army, and the king had him executed for charges of insubordination. So why is it that you, a Narnian dog, have been spared?"

What could he say in the face of such righteous anger? Peter only smiled through blood-stained teeth.

When he still remained silent and would not give them the satisfaction of pleading for his life, they deigned to cut out his tongue.

"It seems he has no use for it," one of them said nastily. He held a knife to Peter's face and held his jaw, applying brutal pressure to Peter's cheeks.

He laughed when they slid the blade between his teeth and pressed the tip of it into his tongue. He laughed because there seemed nothing else to do. He had brought the whole thing onto his own head, after all. Was this truly how he would die, then?

"The king loves me for my charm, I suppose," Peter said lightly, smiling around the sharp metal blade, not caring that it nicked the inside of his mouth.

"Bend him over that rock!" shouted the infuriated soldier, taking the knife out and giving Peter another colorful injury in the process. "I'll show the slave his place!"

He was then grabbed and forced onto his stomach. They were pulling at his clothes and he was sobbing and laughing and struggling. _I don't want to die like this!_ he thought frantically, as blood leaked out of the corners of his mouth.

Just as he gave himself up for lost, he heard a scream and the rough, hurting hands retreated from his body. Gasping for breath, he looked up, confused.

It was the General Glozelle standing among the trees, and he was holding a crossbow. The arrow from the bow lay embedded in his attacker's neck. The other soldiers quailed when the saw their king standing next to the General. They fell to their knees as Miraz walked up to them, the General by his side with weapon still drawn.

Peter lay panting on the ground, hardly believing that he was saved.

"General Glozelle," said Miraz softly, looking over the miscreants with disgust, "I want you to arrest those men. Then, perhaps you should make sure that the hostage is better guarded."

More of the General's trusted men came forward to take the offenders away. Miraz watched with dignified coolness and he barely spared Peter a glance.

Peter let out a sob and grabbed onto the hem of Miraz's fur cloak as the king passed. Yet, the king pulled out easily from the boy's weak grip. In Miraz's eyes, Peter saw torment mixed with anger, and he did not know how to feel.

He lay there, unmoving, until the General lifted him up by the arm with a gruff, "Come along, now."

At dawn the next day, the men who had abducted Peter were taken away into the woods and beheaded, by order of the king.

……………….

………………….

When Susan and her siblings returned to camp, they were not expecting the scene that awaited them. The men were disorganized and the camp was not nearly fortified for battle. In fact, it seemed that the whole place was in disarray.

The troops, of course, were very happy to see them as they had thought Susan dead. Lucy and Edmund were quickly bustled into a tent for food and a change of clothes. Susan, on the other hand, had maters to see to.

"Sallowpad!" Susan called out to a Raven, who was perched on a tree as lookout. "Where is Prince Caspian?"

"He has traveled north, mistress," croaked the good Raven.

"North!" cried Susan. "Why?"

"He has gone to meet the Telmarine King about a hostage exchange," informed one of the Dwarves. He handed her a paper that was dispatched to the Prince, from the High Chancellor of Telmar. It had the seal of the king.

"The King demands that Caspian meet him, without any escort, at the plains near Rock Bridge. He will release Peter, unharmed, only if Caspian goes unarmed and alone. But this is… this is madness! He didn't..-!"

Susan looked up with shocked eyes, paling when she saw the grim nods of the Dwarf and Raven.

"The fool!" she said fiercely, crumpling the parchment in her fists. "Couldn't he see that it's a trap? They'll kill him on sight! How could Glenstorm have allowed this?"

"Welll…" said the Dwarf. "His majesty did not go alone."

Susan groaned in frustration. "And who went with him on this foolish mission? Rynelf, of course, as I can't seem to find _him_ either. Who else?"

"Glenstorm, the centaur," the Dwarf replied. "Reepicheep and his Mice. Some of the Men went with him as well."

"Now don't you worry, Mistress," said Sallowpad rather sleepily, tucking his head under his wing. "I'm sure they will all be fine."

……………………………………

…………………………….

Prince Caspian had only been five years old when Miraz had taken him under his wing. Immediately, the King had disliked the child, for the same reason Miraz had disliked the elder Caspian, his brother.

Miraz had thought both father and son had been weak-spirited. When a prince of the royal Telmarine bloodline should have been bettering himself by sword-training and studying the art of war, Caspian would have been found holed up in the library, reading books about Old Narnia.

When other children were loud and boastful, Caspian had been reserved and fanciful. Too often had the king dragged the prince out by the ear when he had found Caspian playing in the garden with the servants' children. That wide-eyed naïveté, that _softness_ of character had never ceased to irk Miraz.

However, as Caspian grew older, having his ears boxed many times taught him to show quiet disdain for those under him. The kindness and inquisitiveness that Miraz saw as being childish slowly waned over the years.

There was none of that childishness in Caspian's face now, Miraz marveled. Before him stood a young man whose face was noble and determined, yet still lacking the hard edge of cruelty that would have been customary of a Telmarine warlord.

The prince's armor shone darkly and his hand was tight and strong on the hilt of his sword. Intense dark eyes looked upon the king's face in challenge. The prince wore no cloak and rode no steed, but his stance of his feet and the bearing of his shoulders made him look strong and unyielding.

There was a Telmarine soldier who stood next to Caspian, and Miraz vaguely recognized the young man that was once part of the prince's personal guard. Behind the prince stood a small army of men with the powerfully majestic centaur at the lead.

Though Caspian betrayed little emotion on his handsome face, Miraz could see a fire burning behind those dark eyes, and in the face of such vitality, youth, and _passion,_ the king thought himself old and tired. When had the wind chilled him so easily?

Miraz sighed, and found that he could not speak.

"I have come for the release of the Narnian hostages," Caspian said, staunch and brave and no hint of intimidation in his face. Despite the rather impressive battalion he was facing, the prince only had eyes for the king.

All words of scorn, the practiced speech of manipulative witticisms, fell silent and the king could not speak. There stood Caspian, the righteous lover with sword in belt and blazing eyes, so young, so unyielding. Was it any wonder that his own doom now felt inexorable?

Miraz only managed a small nod of acknowledgment. How old he felt!

Thankfully for him, the ever-cunning Lord Sopespian stepped up to speak.

"My good Prince Caspian!" Sopespian exclaimed in syrupy cheeriness, his smile false and wide. "I thank the heavens that you are well. The king has been worried to death for you, and it is good to see that you are in good health."

"I have not come here to speak with you, Lord Sopespian, begging your pardon," said Caspian in a voice of steel. "I will only speak with the king, and my business is the release of Dr. Cornelius… and Peter."

"The agreement," said Miraz, who had found his voice, "was that you come alone. We will not speak with your escort here."

The small contingent of Narnians who had traveled with Caspian shifted uneasily.

"We are the Prince's men," Reepicheep declared loudly, "and we will not leave him alone with the likes of you." The Mouse stepped forward rather boldly, paw on sword hilt. This caused only a ripple of laughter among the Telmarines present, which in turn caused Reepicheep's whiskers to bristle angrily.

"Then there shall be no meeting between us!" Miraz declared, and turned as if to walk away.

"Let me see Peter!" Caspian snapped, the façade of calmness cracking a bit. Desperation shone in his eyes.

"You shall neither see nor speak to him. The agreement was that you come alone, yet you have the gall to bring these… _beasts_ with you!"

Caspian looked about ready to attack Miraz, but Sopespina once again interceded.

"Why no, my king," Sopespian simpered, hands spread wide in a gesture of friendliness. "If the Prince would see the prisoner, then by all means, he shall see him. After all, your majesty has only demanded that Prince Caspian must arrive alone if he wished to _collect_ the hostages. There is no reason not to let him have a glimpse, is there? Now, I am sorry to say that the good Doctor Cornelius is not with us, but we can provide Peter Pevensie."

With a nod to a pair of nearby guards, Sopespian said, "Do bring the lad out, so that Prince Caspian might see him." The two guards left to do his bidding.

A few minutes later, the two guards reappeared, dragging Peter between them. The Narnian was not in good shape. Sopespian smiled as he caught the distressed look on Caspian's face, the sharp intake of breath, and the pained joy.

The boy's blond head hung limply to his chest, only raised when one of the guards pulled him up by the hair. Peter's yellow hair was dirty and partially matted with blood.. The pale lips were nearly blue, and there was the horrible brand on his left cheek, testament to his suffering. Yet, it was the face of his lover, the face that Caspian had longed to see.

"Caspian!" the prisoner gasped gasped, a look of anguish on his ruined face. He lurched forward, but was caught by the guards' strong arms.

"Oh, Peter…" Caspian whispered soundlessly. For how long had he dreamt of this moment? Next to him, Rynelf stiffened and the soldier's hand went to his sword belt.

"You will release him at once!" Caspian demanded of Miraz. The king, however, was refusing to meet his nephew's eyes and was staunchly avoiding looking at Peter. The tanned brow was wrinkled in something akin to sadness.

"Why, of course," Sopespian spoke up. "If anything, we would only be too happy to oblige. It is ever our desire to cater to the prince's whims." He smiled and Caspian glowered.

"But, unfortunately, my Prince, we cannot simply hand over the prisoner if your majesty insists your escort remaining here."

"My Prince," Rynelf whispered into Caspian's ear, putting a hand on his shoulder, "don't listen to them. They mean to trap you. We can…"

"All right," Sopespian said, sweet as ever, but the warmth vanished from his smile. The cunning and cruelty that had made him such a successful politician came through in his dark, dark eyes. "Now you have seen your lover. Now, my Prince, your men?"

At a quick gesture from the Chancellor's hand, the two guards violently forced Peter onto his knees. One of them pulled up the boy's arm at a painful angle, exposing the palm. The guard drew a sharp knife and pressed it against that pale hand, drawing one precious drop of red.

"Very well then. Perhaps this shall be a bit more persuasive."

Peter let out a hoarse scream as the knife point dug into the webbing between two fingers. Caspian's entire body tensed and he gritted his teeth.

"We'll start with his fingers, and continue to cut something off until your troops fall back."

"Stop! Don't you dare lay another hand on him!" It was Rynelf who spoke. The man made to draw his sword, but Caspian grabbed his wrist and held it steady.

"No, Rynelf," said the prince sternly, as Miraz's men immediately armed their crossbows and trained them on the Prince. "I have not come so far to get us all killed!"

"Too subtle?" said Sopespian, with a smirk. He walked behind where Peter was kneeling and drew a knife of his own. With a wrench, he pulled the boy back by the hair, exposing the already bruised neck. "Let me make it clearer, dear Prince. If you don't lay down your arms and order your men to fall back, I'll slice his throat open."

The kneeling boy let out a panicky exhale as cold steel touched his throat.

Caspian could see the edge of the blade resting against the smooth skin, marred here and there by red marks. The prince could imagine the pulse fluttering with fear beneath the weapon. Caspian's own hands had tightened painfully into fists without him knowing.

Peter was looking at the prince with moist blue eyes, and Caspian ached to see that those eyes were so serene, so accepting. Peter's eyes closed, the blond eyelashes pale smudges against his cheek, and the boy tilted his head back.

"Enough," Caspian ground out, heart breaking. He turned to Rynelf. "Tell the rest of the men to fall back."

"But your majesty, we cannot leave you defenseless!" Rynelf protested.

"I say we can still fight them," snarled Reepicheep, razor-sharp sword drawn and ready.

"No," Caspian said firmly. "I want you all to fall back. Glenstorm, regroup with the others at the Dancing Lawn. If the king has business with me, then he shall address me alone."

Reluctantly, they retreated, leaving Caspian standing alone. Slowly, Caspian unbuckled his sword and let it fall to the ground. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. There were silent tears running down Peter's face.

While Miraz remained silent, Sopespian laughed. At a sharp order from the Chancellor, two more men immediately stepped forward to seize Caspian. The prince offered little resistance as they gripped his arms. With rough hands, they removed his dagger and stripped off his armor.

A fist to the solar plexus stunned Caspian and brought the prince to his knees, gasping. They shackled his wrists and dragged him away.

"Well, my king," Sopespian said cheerily to Miraz, who had been watching the entire exchange with somber eyes. "It seems your plan to draw the prince out has worked, after all."

The king was silent for awhile, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself as if to ward off the biting wind.

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly and his voice was heavy. "I want you to keep Caspian away from the prisoner."

"Oh, come now, sire," Sopespian said, honey-sweet smile back, knowingly studying every bit of hesitation in Miraz's face. "Surely we must be so kind as to let them spend their last hours together. After all, we execute them both in the morning, as was the plan, no? Show the men that traitors and usurpers do not live."

"Y-yes," Miraz said gruffly, and there was a hint of pain in those dark eyes that was quickly masked by anger. Sopespian had not failed to notice this, and he chuckled again. The control he had over the situation was exhilarating to him.

While the two men talked, the guards had re-bound Peter's hands and taken him back to the other edge of the camp. When they had finished a thoroughly humiliating search for weapons on the Prince, Caspian was dragged there also.

They dropped Caspian unceremoniously next to Peter was bound, his face pressed to the frost-covered ground. Pushing himself up awkwardly with his shackled hands, Caspian thought he was looking at the most wonderful sight in the world.

It was only a second before Peter was in his arms, the chain between his manacled wrists thrown over Peter's head so that Caspian could cradle the boy to his chest. He could feel the near-emaciated body shaking with sobs and the Prince could feel tears sliding down his own cheeks to soak in the blond head that was tucked under his chin. _They were finally together again._

"Caspian…" Peter wept.

Bound hands were grabbing at the Prince's shoulder. Peter raised his face and Caspian felt his heart break at the sight of the boy's branded cheek.

"Oh, Peter, Peter," he sobbed. "I should have come for you sooner. I should have…" He was stopped by a desperate kiss that had them both gasping with emotion.

How they had dreamed of this moment! In dark chambers, heart-broken whispers spoken while clutching a golden ring in tight fist, Peter had dreamed, hoped to see his lover again. Now, the feel of Caspian's strong arms around him and the feel of the Prince's lips were so painful and so beautiful all at once.

"I knew you would come for me," Peter whispered into Caspian's lips. "I hoped and hoped you wouldn't, but I knew that you would." He laughed sadly as Caspian kissed him again, hands clutching at his back, desperately trying to feel all of him.

"Peter," Caspian murmured, drinking in the sight of the Narnian's features as if he was dying of thirst. "I've missed you so much."

"Why did you have to come?" Peter said, his voice cracking in sorrow. "You're in danger here. They'll hurt you too now and I'd rather have born all the pain in the world so that you'd be safe. Oh, but I'm so glad you came, I'm so glad! I don't care if it's selfish of me, but I wanted to see you!"

"Shh," Caspian said gently, rocking Peter back and forth like a child. Awkwardly, not willing to relinquish his hold on Peter, Caspian gently lowered the other boy down so that Peter was lying on his arm. Maneuvering his shackled hands around, Caspian ever so gently laid fingers on the red, blistered brand of Peter's left cheek.

"Oh, Peter, what have they done to you?" Caspian cried, brow wrinkling in distress.

"I'm sorry," Peter sobbed, reaching up with his bound hands and tracing Caspian's chin and cheeks with his fingertips. "You've risked your life to come for me. And here I am, _damaged_."

"Don't say that. Don't ever say that…"

They lay next to each other on the ground, touching, kissing, huddling close for warmth. Caspian took Peter's freezing hands in his and somehow, managed to loosen the ropes enough for Peter to slide out of them. Not that it did much more than make Peter comfortable. Escape was useless, they both knew that, but now Peter could hold and touch Caspian freely.

There was much sad and joyful weeping between them as the night grew colder and the stars came out above them. Their voices were fraught with desperation.

There was a campfire somewhere near them. The embers sent up red sparks that flew through the air, only to disappear into puffs of smoke when the hit the ground. He and Caspian were pressed so close that Peter couldn't tell who was shivering, but it was so, so cold.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Peter whispered, running his bruised hands through Caspian's hair. "They're going to have us killed."

There was a sickening grinding noise coming from somewhere and Caspian looked over Peter's shoulder to see the burly executioner sharpening an axe. The sparks coming from the stone wheel were eerie and bright. Peter tried to turn his head to see but Caspian pressed the blond head into his chest.

"Keep looking at me, Peter. Look at my face."

Peter let out a small sob. Gently, Caspian took the wrists, red with rope burn, and kissed them. As best as he knew how, the Prince soothed Peter.

"We're going to be all right. We're together now, see? They can't do anything to us, Peter. We're together again, and I love you. J-just keep looking at me."

…………………..

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Notes: Thanks to everyone for reading! You guys are awesome, and really inspire me with your kind reviews. Hope everyone had a happy new year! (Also, I'm not entirely familiar with Narnian geography, so I'm sorry if there're any discrepancies.)


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

OMG I'm so sorry this took so long!

Chapter 25:

Caspian brushed snow and droplets of ice out of Peter's hair. His fingers were numb with cold. The iron shackles were painfully heavy on his wrists as Caspian brought the other's trembling hands to his lips.

"Is it dawn yet?" Peter asked hoarsely, eyes staring listlessly into the distance.

"Almost," said Caspian, getting the word out difficultly from a dry throat. Peter shivered in his arms and the Prince shifted them around so that Peter was more lying on top of him than on the freezing ground.

"I'm so cold…" Peter murmured tiredly before his blue eyes slipped closed. He rested his weary head on Caspian's shoulder.

"It's going to be alright," Caspian kept repeating softly, like a prayer. "Someone will come for us. We'll be alright."

"I don't think we will," Peter replied, stopping the anxious flow of words by touching Caspian's lips with his fingertips.

Time dragged on and the air grew even colder. Both of them were feeling at once that it was terrible to _wait_ like this, but at the same time, how the wait could not be long enough.

The sky was still dark when they heard the general's steady footfalls and looked up from where they were curled around each other. Glozelle had silently guarded them through the night, keeping them safe like a watcher from afar. Now, the general's eyes looked tired and bruised, and sad.

"It is time," Glozelle said softly and Caspian reflexively held Peter just a bit tighter.

Guards came and took them, separated them for a painful moment. They were marched, on stiff legs, through the camp. Peter expected jeers and mocking calls, but none came. Instead, the soldiers, young and old, looked on with solemn faces as their Prince was paraded before them.

Weaponless, stripped of armor, with dirty hair and face, Caspian still refused to be cowed. Even with the guards' hands gripping his arms, Caspian walked with a high head and stoic face.

While Miraz's infantry had no love for Peter, they still looked on their condemned Prince with respect and admiration. They removed their helms as the prisoners passed, heads bowed in a silent show of reverence, and Peter smiled to see his lover so brave.

They were marched to a clearing. A small group of soldiers had gathered and Miraz stood among them, crown on his head and sword by his side.

The King looked more somber and terrible than Caspian could remember, but the Prince refused to be afraid.

The two boys were pushed together for a while, as the guards took their places. They stared into each other's eyes, frightened, yet strengthened by the other's gaze. Their faces were pale and dirty, their lips trembling and almost blue.

Inexorably, their eyes were drawn to the wooden block. It was held down by ropes that were in turn, staked to the ground. There was a smooth groove cut into the block of wood for the prisoner's head.

Caspian felt Peter sag slightly against him. The Prince, himself, felt faint. There it was: their seeming end. The executioner in his horrid black mask was standing off to the side, axe hefted in burly hands. He turned to Peter and looked into frightened blue eyes.

Oh, what was there to say?

There was no time left for declarations of love, nor frenzied promises of salvation.

It was Peter who leaned up and pressed chapped lips to Caspian's. It felt so final, the farewell kiss.

They took Peter first, pulling him away from Caspian, and the Prince lurched forwards at the last minute and grasped Peter's arm.

Caspian lifted his shackled wrists to Peter's face and brushed a gentle hand over the Narnian boy's cheek, letting his fingers rest briefly on the painful scar. He saw the guilt in Peter's eyes – _I'm sorry you came for me. I'm sorry you're dying with me, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ – and Caspian couldn't bear it.

"I regret _nothing_," Caspian said fiercely. "I will die, but I will go to death loving you, Peter Pevensie. I don't blame you, not for anything."

At these words, tears ran down Peter's scarred face. Yet, despite the sorrow, there was new peace in those blue eyes.

They pulled him away then, and Peter was made to kneel at the block. He looked so calm now, as he lowered himself over the block, hands gripping the rough edges to steady himself. Slowly, as if doing nothing more than lying down to sleep, Peter stretched himself out until he was prostrate.

Caspian wept then, at the sight of Peter, so beautiful, so calm. The early morning light seemed to gather around the fair boy and Peter's skin seemed almost pearlescent. The Prince's breath caught when Peter's hair caught the early morning rays and turned to delicate gold.

Caspian flinched when the executioner bent over the boy and ripped the top of his shirt down to Peter's shoulder blades, aching to see such fragile beauty treated so roughly.

Still, Peter remained calm and still. Before the executioner moved to tie his hands together, Peter lifted himself up just enough so he could turn his head and look at Caspian. There was a gentle smile on his lips and the Prince could read in Peter's eyes those heartfelt words, _I love you forever, for as long as the stars themselves do shine._

……………………………

……………………………

Edmund couldn't fall asleep and Susan worried that he was sick. She sat by the side of his cot, stroking his hand.

Susan was alarmed to see him looking so sad.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm worried," Edmund said rather gravely.

"About what?"

"You, Lucy… everything. It all seems so awful, especially now."

"Well, we've been through hard times before, Dear…"

"Yes, but… now it seems all the worse, because we're here, together, and I know it's _got_ to be awful before it gets any better. Do you see?"

"I-I'm not sure I do, Ed."

Edmund sighed and turned his face slightly into the pillow. "Will you sing to me, like you used to? I remember you had such a lovely voice."

She smiled and touched his hair with gentle fingers. "I'm not sure you remember right. I don't think I know any songs, really. It was Mother who used to sing to us… all the time."

"_And_ Peter," Edmund said, laughing softly.

"Yes, and Peter. Not me, though."

"You must remember _some _songs," Edmund insisted. "Please, Susan?" He looked up at her, almost apprehensively. It was as if he was silently saying, _if you sing to me, it would mean that you've forgiven me_.

"Well, I… I suppose I do remember this one."

Edmund smiled and lay his head down as Susan began humming a familiar melody, her voice hesitant and shaky, as if from years of disuse. Lucy propped her head up from where she lay nearby, an unhappy little look on her face, as if jealous that she was not the one being sung to.

"Nightingale…. Sleep, dear baby, sleep…"

……………………………….

…………………………….

Miraz was bent over to speak in Peter's ear, and Caspian couldn't hear what they were saying. The executioner was standing by, impatient that the king had stopped him.

Peter's pale shoulders were shaking slightly, but the boy's face remained impassive. Caspian could tell the king was getting angry, whatever he was saying to Peter. The condemned Narnian was speaking too now, and the king did not seem to like his response.

It was then that Caspian saw it, a flicker out of the corner of his eye. Looking carefully, he saw it again: something small and something furry was darting about between two trees, a few yards back. His heart jumped in his chest and Caspian bit on his lip.

Miraz was stepping away from Peter now and Caspian saw the king tensely signal the executioner.

The Prince's eyes were glued to the line of trees where he could now see the silhouettes of Glenstorm and Rynelf and a few others of the soldiers. Caspian tasted blood on his tongue as he bit down to stop himself from crying out in sheer joy.

The executioner was approaching the prostrate figure, axe hefted in his hands. With a quiet grunt, the massive man raised the blade above Peter's body. Caspian could see the slightly quickened rise and fall of Peter's breathing, the eyes that were blinking back tears.

_Save him, save him_, Caspian chanted mentally. He glanced furiously at the tress where he saw the Narnians.

He could see Glenstorm's grim face partly shadowed, the centaur's body pressed close to a tree. He could see the slight tremor in Rynelf's hand as the soldier gripped his sword.

There were too many Telmarine soldiers. There was no way they could get to Peter in time! There were too few of them…

The executioner's axe was poised above Peter's pale neck. Caspian's breath caught.

"No!" Caspian cried in pure agony, pulling away from his captors with all his strength, perceiving that his lover was doomed.

Just as the axe began its deadly downwards arc, there was a sharp slicing sound from somewhere near the ground. The large man screamed and jerked as if his feet were pulled out.

Peter gasped, frozen in shock, when the heavy axe slipped and slammed into the block next to his head. In an instant, Reepicheep and his mice leapt up from the ground and attacked the Telmarine executioner with a dozen pin-sharp swords.

As the large man fell to the ground under a barrage of attacks, Reepicheep jumped up to Peter and cut the boy's bonds with his sword.

The guard to Caspian's right shouted a warning and moved to stop the attack. Thinking quickly, the prince flung the chain of his shackles over the guard's neck and twisted. As Caspian brought the groaning man to the ground, all around him came shouts of battle.

From every direction, the Narnian soldiers seemed to materialize from the trees. A handful of centaurs, led by Glenstorm galloped up with broadswords drawn. There were birds that attacked from the trees with talons and beaks. The men, Rynelf among them, charged forward. Though outnumbered, they attacked the Telmarines with reckless fervor. Miraz's men were immediately up in arms and fought back, easily overcoming the element of surprise.

"Run, your majesty!" Reepicheep shouted to Caspian before diving into the fray.

Peter found himself dazed and struggling to stand. He fought to untangle his hands from the broken ropes and rolled away just in time to avoid being crushed by a fallen foe.

He managed to get to his feet, staring wildly at the confusion around him. Suddenly, there was a painfully tight, yet reassuring grip on his arm. Caspian, who had managed to free himself of his shackles, grabbed onto Peter and held him upright.

The Prince was holding a blood-stained sword and his face was pale. Only one word came from Caspian's lips, "Run!"

Then Caspian was running, pulling Peter along as fast as he could. As Peter ran, stumbling after the prince, he realized what sacrifice the Narnians had made.

"We have to go back!" he gasped, turning, but Caspian's grip on his arm was relentless. Unwillingly, Peter was yanked along with Caspian through the woods as the sounds of battle rang behind them.

Peter screamed when he was grabbed by the hair from behind. Viciously, he was yanked back by King Miraz's who had appeared in the midst of all the fighting, red-faced with anger.

"I will lie cold and dead before I let you go with _him_," Miraz hissed in a voice of pure hatred. Peter gasped in pain and tried to free himself.

"Let him go!" Caspian shouted from somewhere nearby and there was the unsheathing sound of a sword and a scream, and Peter felt the grip on his hair loosen. Still held tightly by a bruising hand, Peter saw that Miraz's other hand was stained with blood and that the king's side had been wounded by Caspian's sword.

"Let him go," the Prince repeated fiercely, holding the bloodied blade up to the king's face.

"You would slay your own uncle?" Miraz said through gritted teeth, and Peter stilled in his struggles, looking to Caspian with wide and pained eyes.

"Caspian…" Peter gasped breathlessly, shaking his head.

"I would kill you," the Prince snarled. "I'd rather it be a fair fight, but let him go or I'll run you through right here and now."

Miraz glared for a moment, still clutching onto Peter, and Caspian's fierce eyes stared right back.

"Go, then!" the king shouted, flinging Peter forwards so hard that he stumbled and was almost impaled on Caspian's sword. The Prince quickly grasped Peter in a relieved embrace.

"Go, little prince, and take your sullied bride with you," Miraz said in a voice so venomous that it made Caspian and Peter stop in their tracks. "But you and your Narnian army will fall. I will crush your forces until there is nothing left of Old Narnia but dust, and _you_…" Miraz stared hard at Peter, who blanched. "You will come back to me as the spoils of war, led back to me in chains. Everything, everyone that you love will die and _you_ will live to suffer my rule!"

Even as Caspian pulled on his arm to run away, Peter felt rage rise within him. He yanked out of Caspian's grasp and stood tall, glaring at the king. "No, Your Majesty," he said, almost spitting the words out with disgust, "no, _you_ will die. You will die without honor, without friends, and I _curse _you!"

The sounds of the Telmarine soldiers coming after them could be heard as Miraz stood stock-still, staring at Peter. It was Caspian who finally grabbed Peter by the arm again and they both ran, leaving the king behind.

Peter found himself being dragged along, barely able to keep up. The wind tore at his face and he could hardly breathe as he and Caspian through the woods, fearing that they would be caught at any moment.

Miraz watched them go as he pressed a hand against his wound, hissing in pain. It was superficial, but still stung as the red streamed out between his fingers. Despite his anger, he couldn't help but be impressed by Caspian's sword-work.

"Sire!" Glozelle called, running to Miraz's side. "Are you hurt?"

"Fall back!" Miraz's shouted to the rest of the pursuing Telmarines, pulling away from his general. "Let them go. Let them go…"

For the Telmarine king even then, had little doubt that his army could defeat the Narnians. And if there was chance that he could yet come out of this war victorious, then there was chance that Peter would come back to him, in chains, yes, but alive.

The king sighed and swayed on his feet. His fingers were warm and wet as he kept bleeding.

Some of the soldiers, however, were not so quick to heed their king's command. A flaw in commanding such a large army at once with very few officials was that instant orders were hard to propagate. One especially anxious squadron of men continued to fire their crossbows at the retreating fugitives.

One nearly struck the Prince as they ran. On and on, they fled, until they were forced to stop abruptly when a drop in the land appeared. Dozens of feet below them was the River Rush. It was nearly all frozen, with enormous shards of ice floating it its depths and they could see no bridge to cross the gorge. Peter gasped weakly and clung to Caspian, his legs feeling as if they would give out. Behind them, they heard the soldiers running, the baying of hound dogs, and the unmistakable shouts of recognition as they were spotted and would soon be trapped.

"Peter, we have to go…"

"Ohh… I can't," Peter said weakly. "I just can't!"

"Peter, come _on_."

The sounds of their pursuers were getting closer and Peter cried out when a barrage of arrows whizzed past their heads.

"We have to go! I can see a way down. Come on, I'll help you," Caspian urged, supporting Peter about the waist and gently pushing him forward. Slowly, they stepped over the edge and tried to find footing to take them down safely.

However, they ran out of time when the Telmarines finally caught up with them. Caspian looked and saw the soldiers at the ledge, crossbows at the ready and decided there was nothing for it.

"Jump!" the Prince shouted at Peter, who was a little ways below him. Caspian steeled himself and leapt for the water while Peter did the same. Caspian heard him scream as he fell and tried to keep his eyes on Peter's pale face and flailing limbs. He closed his eyes when the impact came all too soon.

..............................................

……………………………

Peter could feel a dull yet terrible pain in his chest. It felt like someone was pounding on him with a mallet. He tried to move his limbs but it felt like he was moving through sludge. It was cold and dark around him and he thought he was suffocating. Vaguely, he felt lips press against his mouth and air being breathed into his lungs.

With a painful gasp, he jerked awake and found himself lying on his back on the riverbank. He coughed and water spurted out from his mouth to stream out on either side of his cheeks. There was an excruciating blow and he realized that it was Caspian who was leaning above him, pounding hard on his chest.

With another gasp, Peter lurched onto his side and vomited up river water and bile until he retched. Still disoriented, he flopped helplessly onto his back. Caspian fell on him with a desperate little cry and Peter realized that the Prince's face was wet.

Peter brought up shaking hands to hold onto Caspian and he was shocked to see his them torn bloody.

"You cut them on the ice," Caspian said hoarsely, still clutching at Peter.

_The ice…_

With a slightly tremor, Peter then realized how cold he was and that he was shivering violently. He tried to speak but could only manage a shaky moan.

"Are you hurt?" Caspian asked anxiously, hands framing Peter's face.

"C-cold…" Peter mumbled through trembling lips.

Shakily, Caspian stood and spent some time trying to get Peter up as well. "We can't stay here," he said worriedly, glancing around him for signs of danger. "They'll be after us. I think the current's carried us south of Beruna and we might be able to get our bearings if we move away from the river. We need to find shelter."

Slowly, they set out. Caspian had one of Peter's arms over his shoulder and they moved at a painfully sluggish pace. Caspian was bearing most of Peter's weight as the other boy could barely stand. Caspian himself wasn't in much better shape, also shivering with cold and sporting injuries, but he, unlike Peter, was stronger for having not spent the last few days in imprisonment.

There were woods all around them and Caspian was trying to navigate along the river, but the wind, coupled with the chilled air was taking its toll on Peter's weakened body. The Narnian was wracked with shivers and could barely keep on his feet, so Caspian half-carried Peter deeper into the woods to find some shelter.

They hadn't traveled far when Peter stumbled with a sharp cry of pain. He was unable to speak with how much his teeth were chattering and the prince suspected broken ribs with how Peter was hunched over. With a twist of guilt, Caspian realized that it was probably himself who broke them, when he was trying to force water out of Peter's lungs. Caspian, though afraid of being spotted and captured should they linger too long, lowered Peter to the ground and tried to tend to him.

At first, Caspian tried to gather sticks and start a fire, but his fingers were too numb and trembled to much. The prince then removed Peter's sodden shirt and tried to warm him by rubbing the chilled skin.

The prince gasped when he saw for the first time, the scores of marks and scars that marred the fair torso. There were old wounds that looked like badly-healed whip marks and some newer wounds that still bled. Sorrow and anger consumed Caspian for a moment as he imagined the abuse that had been inflicted upon his lover and he had to press a hand to his mouth to stifle a groan. Still, he suppressed those emotions. He would rage and mourn later, when he had gotten Peter to safety.

When gentle friction failed to revive Peter or stop the frightening shivers, Caspian tried to get Peter standing and moving again.

"Come on, _please_," Caspian grunted, heaving the boy into his arms. "I can't carry you, Peter. We have to find help. Walk with me, Peter…"

Peter was mostly unresponsive, but somehow managed to stumble along awkwardly as Caspian supported him. He grew more and more apathetic as they walked on, the cold bringing him closer and closer to death.

It was an hour later when Caspian finally had to stop. Peter had all but collapsed against him and the prince no longer had the strength to carry on. Laying his lover down again on the forest floor, Caspian stripped off some of his own clothes and lay them over Peter. He lay on top of Peter, shivering in his despair.

The sun had disappeared behind dark clouds and the wind was so cold. Peter's skin felt icy beneath Caspian's cheek. With the last of his strength, Caspian fumbled around for Peter's hand and held it tightly.

How terrible it was, to have gone through so much to save him, only to lose him now!

He must have swooned from exhaustion because the next thing he knew, a noise woke him up. Caspian immediately became alert when he realized that there was someone standing over him. It was a fierce-looking Dwarf with a wrinkled face. Caspian gulped and froze, staring hard at the arrow tip pointed right at his head. Reflexively, he reached for his dagger but realized, too late, that he had lost it.

The Dwarf looked over Caspian intently with its beady eyes before saying harshly, "What business do you have in these woods? Are there any more of you hiding about?"

"Please," Caspian said, trying not to flinch at the Dwarf's murderous look, "I would only beg for shelter…"

"Shelter!" said the Dwarf. "I'll die before I offer help to a Telmarine!" He made as if to loose the arrow.

"Wait!" Caspian cried, his voice cracking with desperation. "If you must kill me, cruel creature, then I can't stop you. But save _him_. Help him or he will die. _Please_." With frantic hands, Caspian gestured to Peter, who was breathing shallowly.

The Dwarf paused and seemed to notice Peter's unconscious form for the first time. The homely creature stared at the pale boy for a long while, its eyes darting from Peter's face to Caspian several times.

"Well, alright then," it finally spoke, not quite lowering the bow. "I suppose you'd better come with me."

………………………

………………………………

Rynelf knew Susan was almost half his age and a rather slight creature, yet he stood with his battle-bruised face bowed before her, unable to look her in the eye. Behind him, the small contingent of men and beasts, the remainders of Caspian's rescue party shifted uneasily.

"How many men were lost on this foolish mission?" she asked, and though her voice was quiet, it sounded thunderous to Rynelf.

"I-I'm not sure, Lady," Rynelf replied, still staring at his boots. "Some of them may have been lost when we were fleeing, but they could have survived, perhaps if we were to look for them…"

"I asked you, sir, _how many were lost_?" said Susan, louder this time. Rynelf could see her fingers twitch at her sides, as if she was stopping herself from making fists.

"Eight, my Lady," he said in a small voice.

"Eight…" She chuckled mirthlessly. "_Eight_ of my soldiers, dead or missing, because your little group decided to pull a suicide mission! That's eight fewer soldiers that we have on our side, Rynelf!"

"Prince Caspian thought it best that-"

"_Prince_ Caspian is not king here, or have you forgotten?! Is his command as good as mine now?"

"We had to do something."

"You could have waited for me to come back! We could have made a better plan than this!"

"Please, we didn't know if you were coming back at all…"

"So that's it? The moment I step outside this camp I'm assumed to be as good as dead?"

"Begging your pardon," Glenstorm interrupted Susan's angry tirade, stepping forward. "Do not blame this man for what happened, nor the prince. I gave my authority for the party to move out, and if you have any trust left in me and my wisdom, believe that it was a good decision. You will be happy to know that the prince succeeded in rescuing your brother."

"Well where _are _they, then?" Susan demanded, her voiced strained, her eyes desperate. She wrung her hands together.

"We don't know," Rynelf said. "But we did see them escape. They ran for the river, and it may have taken them south."

Susan sighed heavily and brought a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes tiredly for awhile. She looked so vulnerable, her anger melting away to become fear and weariness. Her hair hung limply around her face, unbound and shielding her tears.

"Very well then. Since you've all started this rescue party, you'll come with me to finish it. I'll head for the river and find my brother if I have to overturn and burn the entire western wood."

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Notes: Once again, I'm so sorry for abandoning this story for like... a month! Thanks to everyone for reading and as always, please feedback and lemme know what you think!


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 26:

For what felt like an eternity, Peter drifted in and out of a fevered sleep. As he lay fitfully in a tiny bed, he was conscious of a gruff, complaining voice intermingled with Caspian's soothing one. Sometimes, he would catch snatches of conversation, or perhaps they were dreams.

_Is he a prisoner of war? _

_How do you know?_

_I recognize _that _on his face. Terrible business! A whole lot of trouble you two will bring on my head, if the Telmarines are after you…_

Often, Peter felt the touch of a cool cloth to his head, or the weight of more blankets being added on his shivering body.

_I don't know how we can repay you, Master Bricklethumb. I'm sure we would have perished if you had not helped us. _

_Humph! I don't much think you _can _repay me, even if you would. Don't have any money, I suppose? Or anything valuable on you at all? _

_Um, sorry, no._

_Well, at least you seem the honest sort, so I won't worry about you being thieves. What're a Telmarine and a Narnian fugitive doing out this deep in the woods, anyway?_

It was an entire day later when Peter awoke to Caspian's softly smiling and anxious face. It didn't take much to help Peter recover, owing to the boy's naturally strong constitution.

The Dwarf who had taken them in was named Bricklethumb, and he lived in a hidden, cave-like hollow between the roots of two great trees. There was a small barn a bit ways off, also partially hidden by foliage, where he had kept a pony, but the poor beast had died of cold. Bricklethumb let them sleep there, since the Dwarf's house was barely big enough for the two humans to stand in.

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Peter bit his lip as Caspian swabbed at a cut on his hand with a wet cloth. The prince was kneeling in front of where he sat on the narrow chair, eyes not quite meeting his.

He shifted uncomfortably. The bandages binding his ribcage were tight and rough. It felt strange, having Caspian's callused hands holding his so gently, almost too gently.

Caspian tied a clean bandage around his hand and Peter saw how pale his own skin looked next to the prince's tanned skin.

"They shouldn't scar," Caspian said softly, clasping Peter's hands briefly before turning his attentions to a bruise on Peter's face.

"I-it's fine," Peter said quickly and flinched back when Caspian reached up to cup his scarred cheek. Caspian looked at him concernedly for a moment and opened his mouth as if to say something, but the Prince ended saying nothing and there was an awkward silence in the room.

Peter gasped slightly when Caspian moved on to handle his ankle, turning it about to check for damage.

"I think it's sprained. Hold still, now."

Peter could not suppress a tremble when he felt the pressure of Caspian's fingers on the curve of his bare foot. Again, he felt a sense of almost too-much gentleness from Caspian, as if the prince was handling glass.

He looked into Caspian's face, lit a dark golden color by the lantern hanging from the ceiling. He saw the reticent way Caspian was touching him, how gingerly he was binding his ankle, the slight nervous tremor in those callused fingers. He looked at the dark eyes, the dark hair, the strong outline of the jaw, and suddenly the room felt claustrophobic.

All at once, the guilt, shame, and heartbreak came bearing down on him, his memories of the past and his fears for the future. He remembered Caspian lying in the snow next to him, pale and doomed to die and he feltCaspian _there_, kneeling in front of him all warm and alive. He loved and hurt, and felt _too much_.

He shook and the next thing he knew, Caspian's strong arms were around him. Peter let out desperate gasp and clutched at the back of Caspian's shirt. Carefully, the prince lowered Peter down onto a pile of hay.

Peter drew in a shuddering breath and held on tighter when Caspian tried to move away. He couldn't stop shaking.

"It's alright, it's alright," Caspian murmured soothingly, stroking Peter's face and hair. "It's alright now."

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_"Now, look here! What do you think you're doing? Away with you trespassers! Hey, put that down!"_

_"Where are you keeping them? You will show me where they are, Dwarf, or I swear I'll shoot you right between the eyes!" _

Peter opened his eyes, woken up abruptly by the querulous voice. He tensed for a moment as he had forgotten where he was, then relaxed as he felt the comforting warmth of Caspian lying next to him. At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him and thought it had been a dream.

A ray of sunlight from a crack in the door illuminated the small barn where they had slept last night. The hay underneath his cheek smelled sweet and Peter could hear the deep breathing of Caspian, who was still slumbering. Everything looked golden and he felt warm at last, as if he hadn't felt warm in a long time.

"I don't have time for this. Stand aside, Dwarf, _now!_" someone spoke up again, angry and loud from somewhere outside.

Peter gasped and instantly sat up, wincing a bit as he jarred his ribs. Caspian groaned softly next to him, coming to as well.

"I know that voice," Peter whispered, blue eyes wide.

"Peter, wait…" Caspian only had time to say warningly before the Narnian had gotten up and limped to the door, throwing it wide open.

Peter stood leaning against the door jamb, frozen as if not believing his eyes. There stood his sister Susan, angry as ever, with her bow drawn and an arrow pointed threateningly at Bricklethumb who was standing before the threshold of his home, more grumpy than frightened.

Her face, lined with frustration and weariness, transformed when she saw her brother. A smile of pure, desperate joy lit up her features and she dropped her bow to the ground, all thoughts of violence forgotten.

Peter, his face also transformed with joy, lurched forward a few steps before she flew into his arms.

"Oh!" was all he could say, as she embraced him.

"My brother, my brother!" she cried, kissing his cheeks, and they both wept out of happiness after being separated for two long years. Susan's heart, though hardened by the way, gave way to pure, loving happiness as she was enveloped in those arms she had longed to feel.

Caspian came out of the barn but remained unnoticed by the two siblings, and he was left to stand awkwardly by while brother and sister became reunited again.

"Humph!" said Bricklethumb, already turning to head back inside. "All this trouble. Should never have taken them in."

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A day ago, Susan and the Raven Sallowpad had set out to search for Peter and the Prince. They had traveled through the woods without meeting anyone, no Talking Beasts or Men, until they met Bricklethumb the Dwarf.

For most of his life, Bricklethumb had kept hidden from humanity. At a young age, this Dwarf had his family killed by Telmarine raiders. He became a hermit afterwards, not wanting to have anything to do with Men or their designs. Over time, his disposition had grown sour from living alone, but he had always maintained a good heart. Though wariness of all other living creatures taught the Dwarf to be aggressive to strangers, it was his deep-down kindly nature which had caused him take in Caspian and Peter.

However, deep-rooted suspicion of soldiers caused the Dwarf to respond to Susan and Sallowpad with hostility. Susan, frustrated as ever, suspected wrongfully that Bricklethumb was keeping information from her, maybe even holding her brother prisoner.

Peter had appeared just in time to stop a rather grisly scene from happening. She apologized afterwards, of course, and the Dwarf was understandably surly. He didn't begrudge them supplies for their journey back, but was all too hasty in seeing them go.

They walked through the woods for the better part of the morning. Peter had a rough, makeshift crutch that he used to support his sprained ankle and Susan walked by his side. Caspian was left to trail behind them, not sure whether to join in their animated conversations or not. Sallowpad kept a careful watch in the sky.

Steadily, they headed towards the Narnian camp to regroup with the others. The sun came out and made a pretty spectacle of the forest around them. The snow on the ground was lit up into a dazzling white and the sky was blue.

It was Peter who noticed the danger first. He stopped walking suddenly and coughed, putting a hand to his mouth and nose.

"What's that smell?" he said, with a small gagging noise.

"What?" asked Susan, looking around and seeming unaffected.

Then Caspian smelled it too. The slight smell of matches in the air, giving off a smoky tang.

"Sulphur," gasped Caspian. "_Down!"_

He leaped forward and tackled both brother and sister to the ground, just as a deafening explosion blasted through the woods.

Caspian moaned in pain as dirt and splinters of wood covered his body. He could hear the trees creaking and groaning behind him.

"Are you alright?" he rasped, looking over to Peter, who had tumbled down next to him, pale and wide-eyed.

"F-fine," the other boy replied. "Just shaken. Are they… are they after us?"

Susan had already stood with a grim look on her face. With expert ease, she strung her bow and nocked an arrow.

"Wait!" said Caspian, hurriedly getting to his feet. "It's not an attack. The blast came from too far away so they can't have seen us. Sallowpad…"

The raven, who had luckily been unhurt, flew further to see where the Telmarines were while the three humans ducked low and peered cautiously through the trees. What they saw alarmed them.

There was a small contingent of troops gathered around the primitive canon that had made the explosion. Caspian could see King Miraz among them and his throat tightened in anger.

The blast had leveled all the trees nearby and burnt a hole into the ground."I don't see any Narnian troops nearby," said Susan. "What are they firing at?"

"They're _testing _it," said Peter in a low voice, and Caspian could see Peter staring hard at the machine. "It's the last one they've got left, that canon, and Miraz wants to make sure it works."

"What do you mean it's the last one they've got?" Caspian asked.

"I mean that the one there is the _only_ one left," said Peter, turning around and looking at Caspian. The prince was momentarily taken aback by the inexplicable strength radiating from behind those blue eyes.

"How do you know?" Susan whispered back, but before Peter could answer, Sallowpad returned and croaked out a warning that the Telmarines were planning to fire again. The three of them barely had time to run for cover again before another huge explosion shook the earth.

Panting angrily, Susan stood up from where she fell and immediately drew back her bow again, arrow pointed between two trees.

"No, stop!" Caspian cried and grabbed her, pulling her away.

"Get off me!" she hissed angrily, glaring at him with murder in her eyes.

"He's right, Su," Peter said. "They'll spot us for sure if you try anything and then they'll turn that canon on us. We can't do anything here."

Reluctantly, Susan allowed herself to be led away and the three humans and Sallowpad retreated and went on their journey in a much more somber mood.

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The Narnian scouts saw them long before they reached camp, and news of their return was quickly spread. Edmund and Lucy were waiting for them, the little girl so excited that she was almost bouncing.

Caspian watched from afar as Peter smiled with tears in his eyes and knelt with arms wide to hug both Edmund and Lucy when they both ran to him. There was the contrite, almost sorrowful and reverent joy on Edmund's face and the pure childlike delight that radiated from Lucy's eyes. Susan joined in the tender embrace and Caspian heard more than a few sniffles. The Pevensies all started talking then, laughing and crying and hugging. Lucy stood and took Peter by the hand, pulling him off somewhere. Susan and Edmund followed.

As they left, Caspian noticed many of the Narnians' eyes following the blond-haired boy with quiet reverence. He wondered for awhile what it meant, then realized it was the painful brand on Peter's face that bought him such respect.

Caspian was left staring after them, and he didn't see Peter again for a long while. Distracted as he was, the prince didn't realize that Sallowpad the Raven was no longer with them.

"Where is he now?" asked the weary king. His helmed head leaned back against a tree in a gesture of exhaustion. His long fur cloak seemed to hang limply off his recently-thin frame.

"They should have made it back to the other Narnians by now," croaked the Raven from his perch above. "Last I saw, they were heading southwards. They were taking shelter in a Dwarf's hovel when the Lady and I found them."

"And he… is he well?" Miraz asked quietly.

"Quite well, now that he is with the prince," replied Sallowpad, with a hint of reproach aimed at Miraz.

The king sighed and looked around him warily. Then he laughed, embittered by what he was doing: a clandestine meeting in the darkest part of the woods, with an agent from the enemy camp. A month ago, the proud king would have scorned the idea of talking to a beast, but now he found that he desperately needed it.

"And your part of the bargain?" Sallowpad continued. "I've brought you your news, now what of your promise?"

"Don't worry," said Miraz. "I have kept my word. The supply lines to the west will remain open."

In response, the Raven bowed its dark head and spread its wings as if to go.

"Do you not feel as if you are betraying your people?" Miraz asked. "I'm surprised a Narnian would not consider this traitorous. You are consorting with the enemy, after all."

Sallowpad's feathers ruffled angrily. "I am no traitor!" he insisted. "Nor will I ever be. This is simply a trade. Whatever I disclose to you here will never harm the Narnians in any way and I am procuring a service for them in return."

Miraz chuckled. "I suppose that is true. Yet, you are not so noble to not be ashamed to reveal your indiscretions to the Prince or the Pevensie girl."

Without answering, the Raven flew off.

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"I'm not taking it," Peter said stubbornly, something very close to a pout on his lips.

Susan sighed impatiently, yet Peter could still see her lips twitch with a barely-restrained smile. She waved the syrup-filled spoon in her brother's face again.

"Come on, Peter. It's just a mouthful."

Peter crossed his arms and scooted back on the cot, leaning as far away from the spoon as possible. "It's horrible stuff," he mumbled.

Lucy, who was sitting nearby, giggled at her brother's misfortune.

"Oh, stop being stupid," Susan said. "You're anemic. This'll help." She poked the spoon threateningly at Peter and he made an exaggerated show of trying to avoid it, perhaps to irk her. Lucy giggled some more.

"I'm _not_," Peter insisted. "You know, there are probably other people who need that more than I."

"Well, then you should stop stalling and swallow this so I can go and give it to them," Susan retorted.

"Susan, I'm _fine_," Peter insisted, making a face.

"Actually, I think _you're _looking a little pale there," he teased, pointing at her lightly-freckled nose. "Are you sure you're not anemic? Maybe you need it more than I do. You first, Su."

Susan hid a smile. They all knew he was being stubborn not because he actually cared, but because he wanted this: the sort of domestic and good-natured arguing that he had missed for so long.

"Lucy, tell your brother how stupid he's being."

In response, her sister crawled onto the cot with Peter and started tickling him. Peter laughed and gave in to the playful assault, squirming and wriggling. Susan, in a rare moment of joyful mischief, took the opportunity and shoved the spoonful of medicine into Peter's open mouth.

"Ugh!" he gasped, and made such a disgusted face that Susan couldn't help but laugh. In spite of herself, she tackled Peter just as Lucy did and they all ended up wrestling as if they were all much younger. Edmund wandered in and quickly joined in the fun. They all became a mass of tangled limbs and laughter until the cot creaked and threatened to collapse.

When Caspian stepped into the tent a while later, he was greeted by the touching sight of all four siblings laughing and play-fighting together. As a child, he had never really known any such affection and to see Peter looking so happy sent a pang of jealousy through the prince. He felt rather like an intruder, stepping in on such an intimate family scene.

That feeling only intensified when Susan, with her hair mussed and face flushed, realized the prince was standing there and gave a surprised little "oh!"

The laughter stopped abruptly when the rest of the Pevensies noticed him there, and there were several moments of awkward silence as the siblings looked almost guiltily at each other.

It was Susan who first stood and straightened herself up. With a mumbled greeting to Caspian, she quickly herded both Edmund and Lucy out, leaving Peter and the prince alone.

"I was looking for you," Caspian said at last, after Peter sat looking at him, not sure what to say.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't know," Peter replied uncomfortably, looking down at his hands. Caspian came to sit beside him.

"It's alright. It's just… it was late and I didn't know where you were," Caspian said. The sense of awkwardness between them grew. In a few moments, the atmosphere inside the tent had gone from frivolous to somber and ill at ease. Caspian could see the weight of many secrets in Peter's.

Tentatively, Caspian put a hand on Peter's shoulder, noticing that Peter shook slightly at the contact.

"I… um," Peter said, a flush spreading on his cheeks. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he _should_ have said. He wanted to think of Caspian as a lover again, to confess with all his heart all the betrayals he had committed with the King. He wanted so badly to lean into that touch, but every time he looked into Caspian's earnest, loving eyes, he couldn't bear the shame that Caspian already _knew_ somehow.

"I… I just thought that, perhaps," he mumbled nervously before Caspian interrupted.

"You'd like to sleep with your family?" supplied the prince.

"J-just for awhile. I'm sorry, Caspian. It's just that… I don't think I can… not yet. I'm sorry…"

Caspian sighed took Peter's hand. "It's alright. I understand."

This wasn't how Caspian had hoped it would be, their reunion. The lost, haunted look he in Peter's eyes broke his heart.

"I understand," he said again, stroking the back of Peter's hand with his thumb. "I'm here for you, Peter, whenever you need me. I'll always be here. I'd never press you but… just please don't push me away."

Caspian leaned over and gently kissed Peter's cheek before standing and leaving. Peter could still feel the warmth in his hand, where Caspian had held him briefly.

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The next day, Caspian saw Peter practicing with his sword with Rynelf. Though he ached to tell Peter to stop hobbling around on a sprained ankle, Caspian restrained himself, telling himself that Peter probably needed time alone.

He saw little of Peter for the next few days. It wasn't long after they had arrived back at camp when Miraz had also moved his troops southward. A message came from the enemy camp, ordering a surrender from the Narnian Resistance. Susan spat at the Telmarine messenger before sending back a scathing reply that she'd first see Miraz's carcass strung up before the Narnians would budge an inch.

Then, the entire camp was busy with preparations for the battle. If they won, they would be able to push the Telmarines back and perhaps regain control of Beruna. If they lost, there was nowhere to retreat.

The Narnians were little heartened by Peter's news that Miraz no longer had dozens of catapults at his disposal, but that also meant greater mobility for the king's infantry. With General Glozelle at their command, the Telmarines had the advantage in numbers and arms, but the Narnians understood the terrain better and could suit it better to their fighting skills.

Caspian no longer had time to dwell on thoughts of Peter. Instead, he was occupied all hours with discussing battle tactics with Susan and Glenstorm, helping with the distribution of arms, and seeing to the soldiers.

It was early, on the dawn of the battle when Caspian stepped in to check on Peter. The camp was restless, as always when before a battle with the taste of death in the air.

Peter was binding his ankle when Caspian entered Susan's tent.

"You shouldn't do it that tightly," Caspian chided gently.

"Well, it's only for now," Peter replied, tying a snug knot and flexing his foot to test for pain. "I can't hobble on the battlefield," he said, giving Caspian a nervous smile.

"On the battlefield?" Caspian said, brow wrinkling. "What do you mean? You aren't fighting, of course."

Peter looked at the prince in utter bewilderment, his hands stilling. "What do you mean I'm not? Do you really expect me to sit here while the rest of our troops go to battle?"

"You're injured," Caspian replied. "You'll be in danger out there and I can't be distracted, worrying about you."

Peter was so taken aback by the prince's patronizing tone that he was almost at a loss for words.

"But I'm _fine_," he insisted. "I won't be in any more danger than the rest of us."

"Peter, don't argue with me," Caspian sighed tiredly. "I've had enough quarrels today and besides, you know I'm right. You'll only be a burden if you march with us. Haven't I gone through enough trouble just to keep you safe?" he said rather snappishly.

For a horrible moment, Peter was reminded of a time when Miraz had said something similar. But it was the Prince's last statement that tugged at Peter's heartstrings. He quickly stood and walked close to Caspian.

"Please don't be like this," Peter pleaded, taking Caspian's hands into his. "I know I haven't been fair to you lately, and I'm sorry. Truthfully, I can't tell you how grateful I am for all you've done, all you've risked, just to bring me here. You've returned me to my family when I thought I'd never see them again, and I can't tell you how happy you've made me."

For awhile, the earnestness in Peter's blue eyes made Caspian's heart flutter, but hearing such tender words about family, while the prince had so desperately wished to hear just one loving phrase about himself fall from Peter's lips, incensed his ire.

"It doesn't matter," Caspian said, pulling away. "How fast do you think you can run on that ankle, hmm? Even if you can run, how well do you think you can wield a sword at the same time? If you can't fight, then you should stay here. There's no one to look after you on the battlefield."

"I can hold my own, you know," Peter said, starting to get annoyed.

"You can't yet, and you'll stay here until you can. It's already decided," Caspian said brusquely, turning to leave. He had just reached the tent opening when Peter's angry voice stopped him.

"Who do you think you are?" Peter demanded coldly. Caspian turned around, angry and tense for what he was sure would end in a shouting match. "You're no prince of mine. You're no prince at all, out here, and I'm hardly your subject."

It was then that the quiet resentment in Caspian's heart, resentment at Peter for all his cold avoidances so far, bubbled over into full anger.

"Is that so? I have _given_ this army my life, my very soul! I've bled for these people and led them to their deaths again and again. My _life_, Peter! Everything I had, the very best of my strengths, I've given to the Narnians so that they could succeed in destroying my _own_ countrymen, and you dare to tell me that I'm no prince here!"

Caspian advanced on Peter, shouting, but Peter refused to budge.

"And that makes you my Master?" Peter shouted right back. "Because you did what honor would dictate, you think you have the right to control me? You can't stop me from fighting in this battle!"

"I have the right to keep you from disrupting _my_ battle plans because right now, you are being foolish and naïve!"

"How _dare _you! I'm not-"

"I didn't risk my life," Caspian finally yelled while grabbing Peter and shaking him, "and the lives of others to save you just so you can be killed for your own heroics!"

"And _I _didn't risk _my _life just to be kept here like a child! I didn't condemn myself to torture and death, fighting a battle against impossible odds, just so you can patronize me like this! This is my war as much as yours and you have no right-"

"That's enough!" Caspian roared, pushing Peter back into his seat so hard that he nearly toppled over. He stepped away from Peter, panting and red in the face. "Enough. It's final, and there's no use arguing what's already been decided. You will stay here or I'll have someone come and restrain you."

Without waiting for a reply, Caspian stormed out, leaving an equally red-faced Peter. To angry to speak, Peter wished he had something to throw.

Susan called after Caspian when she saw him stomp out of the tent in a fury. She ran up to him, abandoning her task of bandaging an old soldier's wound.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked. "What was all that about? Half the camp must have heard-"

"Go see to your archers and leave me alone!" Caspian snapped, pushing past her. Susan was left stunned in his wake. He seemed so angry and distraught that she did not pursue him further.

With a sigh, she turned to see to her brother, who was probably in a similar state.

When she entered the tent, Peter was frustratedly trying to tie on a breastplate. His sword lay on the floor along with other various pieces of borrowed armor.

"Help me with this, won't you?" he huffed.

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Notes: Sorry (again) for the long wait! Thanks so much to everyone who's reading. As always, please feedback!


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 27:

In the dim light of the tent, Peter could see the whiteness of Susan's bare arms. The coolness of her skin as she touched him here and there and the warmth of her sighing breath felt acute in the otherwise still and silent tent.

He shivered slightly as the cold metal links of his hauberk brushed against his body. Then there was the gentle pressure of Susan's hands on his waist, coming around to buckle the straps of the leather brigandine.

"Dear Peter," she sighed, close to his ear, and laid her chin on his shoulder. "I never thought I'd see _you_ in armor." She said no more, but Peter could see sadness shimmering in her blue eyes.

She helped him put on a pair of leather vambraces, and her fingers felt delicate, yet rough against his hands. He couldn't stop looking at her hands for awhile. The fingers that so nimbly sharpened arrow heads and strapped on armor were completely hopeless at sewing, Peter remembered. He had lost count of how many times when he had to sew patches onto Lucy's worn-out dresses when Susan had given up and tossed the work aside.

With her head bowed and strands of dark hair falling across her forehead, Peter was suddenly filled with emotion at how much Susan resembled their mother. Impulsively, he took his sister in his arms and embraced her tightly.

All too soon, she pulled away and he thought he heard her sniffle.

"Stay near the middle, amongst the infantry," she said quietly, before leaving him to lead her people to battle. "He won't spot you there."

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The march itself was mostly silent. Caspian led the majority of the infantry with Rynelf at his side while Susan rode with her generals, her archers forming a retinue after her. Every so often, her eyes would stray towards where she knew her brother was.

For the most part, Peter kept his head low and his hand on his sword as he plodded along with everyone else. The entire Narnian army was hushed and grim. The excellent battle strategies that had been worked out by the leaders were so well executed and delineated amongst them all that there was no need for speaking during these last moments before the battle.

Peter could only hear the footfalls of soldiers around him and the occasional whispered prayer. He caught his sister's eyes once as she turned on her horse to look at him and saw her face full of sorrow and solemnity before she quickly turned away.

Their path took them past a tiny Narnian settlement, nestled defiantly in the woods between the unoccupied land between the two armies. There were hardly any people in that destitute little village, and no men at all. Old women, bent with age, came out of their ramshackle huts to see the grim procession pass.

As he walked past them, Peter saw their tired eyes linger on his face, and the faces of all the young men and women marching beside him.

"Shame, shame," he heard them say while they shook their gray heads sadly. "So young. What a shame! What a waste!"

He swallowed hard and found himself shaken, despite himself, and wished he had the coolness that Susan possessed when she rode past the old crones without a second glance or thought.

The march ended not long after that, and Peter's pulse quickened when he saw the opposing army standing across the battlefield. Their dark armor shone ominously in the sun and their horses looked fierce and menacing. The Telmarines' helmets completely obscured the soldiers' features so they all seemed a mass of faceless automatons.

Peter saw Caspian ride forward to meet with Miraz and Sopespian. He couldn't discern their words, but they sounded terse and angry.

The prince returned and gravely faced the army of Narnians. Peter could feel the soldiers around him tense up as Caspian simply said, "Get ready. We daren't fail."

The horns were blown, the orders were given, and the two armies charged towards each other with a deafening roar. Adrenaline coursed through Peter's blood as he ran forward, shouting. Sword out, he struck down his enemies with all his rage.

For awhile, everything was going according to plan. Caspian led the attack and the others followed. Susan and her archers' arrows sailed over their heads and into the enemy line. The centaurs flanked from the right and drove the cavalry back.

Then, the Narnian formations were thrown into chaos when the Telmarines dragged out a machine on wheels that spewed out hellish flames directly into the ranks of Caspian's infantry. While the humans were forced back with shields raised, the steady stream of fire had the Talking Beasts giving way to their baser fears. Even the centaurs were struck with horror at the killing flames and the animals panicked, running around and striking out in blind fury.

"Hold your ground!" Caspian shouted over the din, but he too was forced back when the Telmarines advanced, fire-throwing machine blasting away.

Coughing desperately and trying to protect his eyes from the smoke, the prince didn't notice the heavy-set Telmarine soldier bearing down on him until it was too late. He gasped when the man burst through the smoke, roared a challenge to him, and raised an enormous battle axe to cleave his skull in two. The Telmarine was way to close to deflect and Caspian just about gave himself up for lost when someone grabbed him and jerked him lightening-fast to the side so that the Telmarine's axe hit nothing but thin air.

The momentum brought Caspian to his knees. Through the haze, he saw the yellow-haired Narnian take down the burly enemy with deadly skill.

"_Peter?_" he cried.

Panting, Peter only spared him one reassuring look before running forwards, sword held high.

He had no time to dwell on shock as the next fire blast nearly scorched Caspian's face off and set fire to the surrounding foliage. Groaning, the prince stood and tried to rally the troops to him, but his heart nearly stopped when he saw his fool of a lover charging straight at the Telmarines wielding the flamethrower.

Two enemy soldiers ran to attack him but Peter fearlessly blocked every of their blows with his sword and cut them down with deadly grace. More soldiers converged on Peter, weapons raised to strike him down.

"Peter, no!" Caspian screamed, running forwards to his lover's aid, but stopped as Peter's assailants dropped to the ground almost instantaneously, arrows embedded in their bodies.

Turning with a gasp, Caspian saw Susan standing behind him, bow raised and a smug, cruel smile on her flushed lips. Without a word, she nocked another bolt. His attackers falling back from Susan's deadly arrows, Peter got to his feet and ran forwards again.

With surprising nimbleness, Peter hit the ground and ducked to the side, avoiding the huge stream of fire from the canon. Jumping up again, Peter charged towards the fire-machine. With a yell, he dispatched one of the Telmarines manning it and Susan dispatched the others with her bow.

Peter swung his sword and brought it down heavily on the narrow cylinder of the machine's piston. Steel smashed through the weakest part of the weapon, rendering it useless. Peter screamed as the naphtha gushed out of the broken siphon and splashed onto him in great quantities, soaking his face, clothes, and hair.

He could hear cheers from the Narnians behind him, but he was temporarily blinded by the stinging fluid in his face.

"Get him out of here," Caspian said to someone, and Peter felt himself being led away by Rynelf as the rest of the Narnians charged forwards with renewed courage.

However, even without the use of their flamethrower, the Telmarines were far greater in number than the Lion's Army. The Narnians continued to harass the enemy, but the ever-strong waves of Telmarine infantry continued to push forwards. Both armies were locked in a stalemate and after a tedious battle, a retreat was called on both sides.

The Narnians had come out slightly better. They had advanced slightly towards the North, pushing the Telmarine line back. Yet, it was no time for celebration as they made camp. It would only be a matter of time before one of the armies advanced again and engaged in battle.

…………………………………………….

…………………………………………..

"What's the meaning of this?" Peter demanded, still clutching the rag he had used to hastily wipe some of the naphtha off. It was after the battle and Peter had retired to Susan's tent, bone-weary. However, he had found two stern-looking men there on either side of the entrance, claiming to be his "guard."

"We are here on orders of the prince," said one. "He has charged us with your safety. We are to keep you from going into battle again."

"_What?_" Peter demanded furiously.

The second man actually looked quite contrite. "We don't think it fair, but Prince Caspian has ordered that we keep you from harm. We are to make sure that you stay within the boundaries of this camp and to protect you as best as we can."

Peter was stunned with Caspian's audacity and very nearly stamped his foot in anger. "This is ridiculous!" he cried. "I'm no prisoner. You can't keep me from going to battle!"

"Prince Caspian has commanded that if you shall refuse to stay within this camp, we are to restrain you by force," said the first one.

"I'd like to see you try!" Peter huffed angrily, before turning on his heel and stomping off.

"Where are you going?" asked the taller man, and both of them immediately followed him.

"To the river, to wash this off before some fool lights a match in my face," Peter snapped. "Leave me alone! Or would you like to come and watch me bathe?" He turned on them with a snarl, and the guards retreated to a respectful distance, looking uncomfortable. Peter stormed off, only feeling slightly guilty that he had been rude.

When Caspian returned from taking care of the essential duties of taking stock of their losses, their provisions, and their arms, he went at once, fuming, to check on Peter. He was at once burning up inside with anger at being disobeyed, fear at having Peter almost harmed in battle, and an inexplicable sense of pride from seeing his beloved fight so fiercely.

When the two guards he had dispatched to watch his wayward lover reported that Peter was going for a bath in the river, Caspian's temper was even more inflamed and he mentally slandered Peter for being a loveable but thoughtless idiot.

Heading in the direction of the river, Caspian went off to look for Peter. He saw naphtha-soaked garments littering the ground and once again cursed Peter for his carelessness. Who knows what wild beasts or Telmarine scouts could be out here? What if he was attacked?

Worry sped the prince's steps until he came upon Peter, naked and waist-deep in the cold water. One look told at Peter's flushed face and the frustrated way he was scrubbing at himself told Caspian that the other boy was just as angry.

"Come to gawk at me, have you?" Peter sneered, once he saw Caspian standing on the river bank.

"Were you always this stupid or has the sun finally gone to your head?" Caspian snapped in return. "You knew damned well why I wanted you to stay behind!"

The prince turned and snatched Peter's relatively clean undershirt from the branch where it hung. He thrust it at the other boy.

"Get out of there, already. It must be freezing," he demanded, waving the fabric at Peter, who stubbornly refused to budge.

Instead of getting out, Peter ignored Caspian and scooped up some more water in his hands to splash his grease-stained face and hair.

"_Peter…_" Caspian said warningly, teeth gritted and looking as if he would storm into the river and drag Peter out if he had to.

"Hang it all, what _is_ the matter with you?" Peter snapped, finally stepping out and stalking towards Caspian on bare feet. "Why do you insist on being so impossible? So controlling?"

Despite his anger, Caspian felt himself flushing as Peter walked towards him, dripping wet with river-water and completely naked. He hurriedly lowered his gaze to the ground.

"You had no right!" Peter said angrily, coming to stand right in front of him. "I don't care how many armies you command, you have no sovereignty over _me_! I'm not your prisoner, nor your hostage. It's a complete and utter insult, posing those two guards to keep me here! Did you give them orders to tie me down as well? _Look at me_!"

Peter ended his tirade with a shout, causing Caspian to raise his eyes and glare at Peter's flushed face. In anger, Caspian threw the shirt at the sodden boy and unleashed a tirade of his own.

"You weren't trained for battle, you idiot. You're no use to anyone out there, especially not me. You're a danger to me out there because I have to look after you!"

Peter huffed and bent down to hastily pull on his trousers and shoes, using the discarded undershirt to mop his hair.

"You have no idea what I went through to bring you here. The risks I took! Would you repay me by throwing your life away?"

"Of course not," Peter scorned cruelly, his face twisted in a hideous parody of his usual kindness. "I'd have to repay such a debt _with_ my life. That's what you're asking for, isn't it? That I dedicate myself to your whims?"

"You know that's not-"

"Poor, little Telmarine Prince! You must keep some semblance of power, I suppose. What better way than to bully me? Otherwise you can't be king, without having bent _someone_ to your will."

Sneering, Peter pushed past a fuming Caspian, who could hardly believe his ears.

"Don't turn your back on me!" Caspian roared, turning on Peter and grabbing the boy's arm. It seemed as if Peter was just waiting for that one act of violence, so quickly did he turn and shove at the Prince with both arms.

Caspian stumbled back but recovered and pushed at Peter with equal strength. He must have caught Peter off guard because the boy stumbled and almost fell, barely catching himself on a tree branch. It was the surprised, affronted, almost wounded look in those blue eyes that incensed in Caspian a lust, protectiveness, and furious passion, an inferno of emotions that heated his blood.

The same fury flashed in Peter's eyes, and before he knew it, they were rushing at each other, grappling and wrestling. Peter didn't know what he was trying to achieve, only that he had to get his hands on as much skin as possible and that every touch, every wrench and twist of limbs, fueled the violent fire in his heart.

Neither of them knew whether he was trying to hurt the other or embrace him. There were no punches thrown, no words spoken, only the guttural grunts of them both filling the cold forest air with vapor.

Peter found himself excited beyond belief that his bare, wet body was pressed so tightly against Caspian's, that his fingers were curled tightly into Caspian's biceps, leaving bruises, and that Caspian had a hand against his back, trying to pull him closer or throw him off, he didn't know.

"Agh!" he panted in frustration when the prince pushed him back a few paces, making him slip on the frost and fall deeper into Caspian's embrace.

They were pushing fingers at each other's faces now, grabbing fistfuls of hair and yanking the other's head closer until their noses touched.

Peter's skin felt heavy with sweat and his mind was whirling as his mouth moved closer to Caspian's. They were no longer struggling now, though they both still grabbed at each other tightly, bruising out of defiance.

Peter felt the pressure of Caspian's fingers loosen on his hair, until the touch became a caress. He realized he was trembling.

_This is the closest we've ever been since he's brought me back here_, Peter thought.

Something must have happened, some doubt perhaps flickering in his eyes, because then they were both pulling back. Peter's face was still flushed with the remaining traces of anger and he could see the frustration present in the prince as well.

Angry and embarrassed, but with his frustrations slightly sated, Peter turned to go. But Caspian caught his arm again at the last moment, though with hardly the force he used before, pulled his own cloak, and draped it around Peter, who was now shivering from the cold. He didn't stop Peter from going after that.

…………………………………………

……………………………………….

The entire Narnian camp could sense the tension between Prince Caspian and Peter. They avoided each other almost to obsession, never crossing paths if they could help it. They took their meals separately, Caspian usually eating alone or with the centaurs, and Peter with his family.

It quickly became common knowledge, by way of whispered gossip, that Caspian and Peter had been lovers and that the prince had embarked on a daring and romantic mission to rescue Peter from the clutches of the tyrant king, a mission which few of the soldiers could boast of having been a part of, and that now the two were bitterly quarrelling. The whispers, especially from the younger members of the camp, grew increasingly excited when each night, Caspian would sleep in one tent while Peter slept in another.

It was Susan who confronted Caspian later that day. She, more than anyone, was aware of how troubled Peter was. She would lie awake for long hours at night listening to every sigh and turn that Peter made on the pallet next to her, and she had had enough.

"Whatever it is going on between you two, I want it fixed," she said to him, after drawing him aside.

"Why do you assume I can fix it? Why aren't you telling him this?" Caspian shot back, annoyed.

Susan sighed. "You can fix it by dismissing those guards. It's humiliating, what you're doing to him."

"It's to protect him, because he's too stubborn to protect himself."

"Perhaps he doesn't need protecting, have you ever thought of that? I hear the soldiers talking, Caspian. They are praising Peter for his bravery because without his breaking that infernal machine, we'd be having a whole lot more trouble breaking the Telmarine line. Don't you think that Peter deserves a little more respect from you?"

Caspian looked terribly somber for a moment before speaking. "Have you ever loved someone so much, that you felt as if you were going insane? Have you ever loved someone so much that you'd do anything to protect them, even if it meant having them resent you? I'm not doing this out of disrespect. Can't you understand caring about someone _so much_ that not only would you give your life for them, you'd even risk their hating you so that they'd be safe?"

"No," she said simply, her face impassive and cold.

She turned to go, but then turned around and spoke softly to him, "This quarrel isn't good for him, or you. I want it finished."

"Dear Susan," Caspian sighed sadly, watching her go. Unbeknownst to him, Peter had been shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation from behind a tree, and had heard Caspian's heartfelt confession.

The next day, Caspian was surprised when Peter reluctantly agreed to the guards being there.

So, with much loathing, Peter stayed behind the next time Caspian and his troops went to do battle. He stubbornly tried to avoid his guards as much as possible, refusing to speak to them though he felt slightly guilty at sulking like a child.

While Caspian and Susan attempted push after push against the Telmarine forces to the North, Peter busied himself with tasks around the camp. He took pains to care for the elderly and sick, who were often neglected in times of war. He got to know the refugees' names, and the names of their children. He did better than bringing them food and medicine; he talked with them and shared in their troubles, gave them hope. Those bereft of homes, of families, grew to admire him.

He often spent time with Lucy and Edmund, happy that Edmund was growing into a much more reasonable and wise boy. Ed would often go around the camp hand-in-hand with Lucy, simply exploring or talking in quiet whispers.

There was a particular woman, Mary, whom Peter would visit often. She was originally from one of the Northern Narnian villages but became a refugee when her husband was killed in a Telmarine raid. With a young son and another child on the way, she was forced to seek help from her brother, who was part of the Resistance. Though she loathed such a crude living, she and her son joined Susan's camp. Heavily pregnant as she was, she relied on her brother to tend to her needs but he was often unavailable. Her son was young and though he tried his best to help his mother, it was a difficult life for a pregnant woman without the comforts and utilities of a home.

Peter, confined to the camp as he was, took some of the burden of her care onto himself. He did what he could to make her comfortable, bringing her meals and blankets, if there were any to be spared.

Whilst he tended to his mother, Peter would often entertain her son, John, with old Narnian stories. The son grew to admire him, and would listen with rapt attention as Peter described battles and adventures of the ancient days. Peter spoke those stories with a partly wistful air, as he silently bemoaned Caspian's unfair incarceration of him.

"My father died in the war," John said to him one day, while Peter was applying cold compresses to Mary's aching joints. "Mother said it was a waste of life."

Peter felt Mary stiffen under his gentle hands, but she said nothing, probably far too tired and resigned to care anymore. He looked into John's face, so earnest and young. He couldn't have been a bit older than Edmund.

"Your father must have been a valiant man, to give his life for Narnia," Peter said, smiling reassuringly. "He fought for what he believed in, and that isn't a waste."

Mary made a disapproving noise and turned to give Peter a stern look.

"I'm sorry," Peter said immediately, sensing her displeasure. "Forgive me for intruding."

"I want to fight for Narnia too!" John said excitedly. "Uncle says I'm not old enough, but I can be brave, and I'm getting stronger everyday. Do you think Prince Caspian will let me march with his soldiers tomorrow?"

"John, that's enough," Mary spoke up sharply. "What did I tell you?"

John fell silent, but Peter put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I think your mother needs you here more. But you are brave. It is an honor to be able to serve for your country."

He was afraid he must have upset Mary, and he left her.

The next day, the otherwise uneventful afternoon was broken by a shrill scream. Peter was up and running immediately, trying to see what the disturbance was.

The troops had returned from yet another battle ending in stalemate. This time, however, they bore a broken little body with them: John. The scream came from Mary, who was now kneeling on the ground beside her son, sobbing.

With his heart in his throat, Peter ran up to her, not knowing whether John was dead or just wounded. He knelt besides the still figure and searched the body for injuries.

"Help me find the wound," he said, tearing open the boy's shirt. He could see an arrow-head lodged in the boy's side. There wasn't much blood, but he could tell that the wound was serious.

"What happened?" Peter gasped.

"He must have snuck out to the battle-field," said Caspian, who had borne the boy on his shoulders back to camp. "He stole some spare armor and tried to join in the fight."

"It's your fault!" Mary screeched at Peter, hands tearing at her own hair in agony. "You filled his head with that nonsense about heroics and ancient battles. He snuck away because of you!"

"He's not breathing," Peter said tensely, bending down and putting his ear to John's mouth.

"My child is dead!" Mary moaned, and sank to the ground as if she was about to faint.

"He's not dead yet!" Peter cried, becoming just as shaken. Desperately, he took John's face and pressed his lips to the cold, clammy ones and puffed air into the lungs. He saw John's chest rise and fall once, but nothing else.

"No, no," Peter pleaded, and repeated the process, twice, three times. Nothing. He pressed both palms to the boy's chest and pushed rhythmically, over and over. Still, John didn't stir, even when Peter again enveloped his mouth and tried to breathe life into him.

"Breathe!"

"Peter," someone said, and grabbed his shoulder. Gasping, Peter wiped his eyes, not even realizing that he was sobbing.

"Peter," Caspian repeated, coming to kneel besides him. "Let him go. He's gone."

"No, no, he's not. He can't be!" Peter said raggedly, continuing to press on the boy's chest.

"Rynelf, restrain him!"

"No!" Peter cried as Rynelf appeared out of nowhere and grabbed him, pulling him away.

"Come along, Peter. There's nothing more you can do," Rynelf said kindly, leading Peter away. Peter followed numbly, hearing Mary wail behind him. He vaguely recognized that he was led into Caspian's tent and that Rynelf pushed him to sit down. After some reassuring words, Rynelf left him alone.

Caspian came in a while later, finding Peter sitting exactly as Rynelf had left him, seemingly in shock. All his anger at the boy's stubbornness from before melted away as the prince saw how distraught Peter was.

"It was my fault," Peter whispered brokenly, his voice small and frightened. He wrung his hands, which were covered in traces of John's blood.

Sighing, Caspian took Peter's hands. "Peter, in battle, we often lose ones we care about. John was-"

"Don't patronize me!" Peter shouted suddenly, jumping to his feet. He held his hands to his head, as if the world was spinning out of control. He groaned, a deep, pained sound that made Caspian's heart ache.

"It wasn't your fault," Caspian said. "You didn't make him sneak away, and you couldn't have stopped him because you didn't know what he was doing. None of us knew."

"I shouldn't have encouraged him! I.. He… He was just a child! He wanted to fight and I…"

"Peter," Caspian said, ever so gently turning the boy around and lightly hugging him about the shoulders. He could feel Peter growing more and more agitated.

"He was just… so _young_!" Peter cried, and now the tears were running down his face again.

"Stop blaming yourself," Caspian said fiercely, wanting to shake Peter and embrace him at the same time. "You didn't do anything! How can you possibly have caused it? _How_? He wasn't your responsibility, and he was barely a child anymore. Whatever happened, you weren't to blame."

Peter shook, looking desperately into Caspian's eyes. Finally, he collapsed into the prince's embrace with a sob.

"Oh, poor Mary!" he wept, clutching at Caspian, getting some of the blood onto the prince's shirt. "She lost her husband, and now because of me, she lost her son!"

It seemed as if the dam to Peter's emotions had finally broken. He sagged against Caspian, barely able to stand.

"Peter, Peter," Caspian said, stroking the blond head. "You couldn't have harmed him even if you tried. Not you, my kind, sweet, wonderful beloved."

Peter pulled back and stared at the prince through watery eyes, shivering.

Caspian's face was warm with emotion, and his arms were so strong and reassuring. He couldn't take his eyes off of the prince's lips, speaking such wonderful words to soothe an injured soul.

"I love you," Peter whispered. "I love you so much."

Trembling, he pressed his lips to Caspian's warm, inviting mouth and felt the prince take him in a tender embrace.

Sorrow soon gave way to a lustful, frustrating, euphoria and the next thing Peter knew, Caspian was pushing the both of them towards the cot. The back of his legs hit the edge and Peter fell bonelessly backwards, Caspian on top of him.

The prince was pulling gently at his clothes and Peter helped, stripping off every garment and reaching upwards to do the same to Caspian, needing to feel and touch bare skin. He was surprised and thrilled at the titillating feelings every touch evoked, not realizing how much he had needed this.

He cried out at the feeling of Caspian's bare skin against his. It felt so wonderful, to be held this way again. Caspian's mouth descended upon his face, his neck, his chest, and down, down, leaving rough kisses behind.

A callused hand ran up the inside of Peter's thigh and he writhed as Caspian touched him, stroking him erect.

He moaned, and the prince hesitated, worried that he had jarred Peter's ankle.

"Ohh, don't stop!" Peter gasped, then grabbed Caspian's down for another kiss. He touched Caspian everywhere, every bit of skin he could reach. In that moment, amidst frenzied gasps of passion and sweaty hands, they somehow found each other again.

It ended all too soon, their mutual longing speeding the process. When his release came, Peter arched upwards from the narrow cot, crying out desperately. He was shocked at how liberating it felt, this ultimate act of love. All his sorrows seemed lifted from his shoulders for a moment.

As they basked in the afterglow, Caspian held Peter so gently as he whispered words of love to him. There were no more barriers between them anymore, and it was in the quietude of Caspian's tent that Peter finally found the courage to confess the secret that had plagued him for so long, the secret that would have poisoned their relationship.

"I was with him," Peter whispered, as if afraid the world would hear his shame.

Caspian tensed at Peter's side and clutched his lover's hands a bit tighter. So there it was.

"I was _with_ him," Peter repeated. The filtered sunlight cast somber shadows on Peter's face and Caspian could see his lip quiver. "Your uncle. Miraz. He… he lied to me, told me he was going to hurt my sister if I didn't. I was so stupid to have believed him. I-I've betrayed you."

"No, Peter…"

"I'm so sorry…" Peter's breath hitched in a small sob.

"Peter, listen to me. I don't blame you for anything. Not for anything, do you hear? Don't you blame yourself."

"Do you still love me?" Peter asked in a small voice, gazing up at Caspian with such a lost look in his moist eyes. "Even though I was _his_ lover?"

In response, Caspian took Peter's hand and put it over his chest. Peter could feel the heart steadily beating away underneath the strong muscle. "For as long as this mortal heart beats, I will love you."

With a grateful little cry, Peter embraced the prince and buried his golden head in Caspian's arms.

"Did he do this to you?" Caspian asked hoarsely, running his hand along a faint scar on Peter's back.

Peter captured Caspian's wandering hand and sighed. "He wasn't a kind lover. I… I can't imagine what was worse: the things he'd do when he was angry (Peter shuddered slightly) or just the feeling that after awhile, I'd stop caring how bad things were."

Caspian made a noise that sounded like he was angry and sad at the same time. He rolled over so he could look into Peter's face.

"I should have kept you from suffering. If only I'd come for you earlier so you wouldn't have…"

Peter pressed fingers to Caspian's lips to silence him. "Stop," he said softly, with a small smile. "There was nothing you could have done. You've risked everything to bring me here, and you've made me so happy. I love you."

"I was wrong to have tried to control you," Caspian said, eyes staring into Peter's. "I promise, whether we are marching together to battle or making love, you will have sovereignty over yourself, so that you will never feel vulnerable again."

………………………………………..

………………………………………

The Narnians fought bravely, but day by day, they were slowly losing. The Telmarine forces drew assailed them from all sides, tightening their hold over the Western Woods like a noose.

Even with Peter now fighting by his side, Caspian could feel his courage floundering. At first, they lost few soldiers, not enough to devastate them. Yet, stalemate after stalemate took their toll on their resources.

The Narnians had the advantage of knowing the land, but the sheer number of Telmarine soldiers was formidable, and terrifying. The Narnians suffered losses everyday and there were few battles won. In the end, they were forced to give up their position and march deeper into the wild woods. The journey was difficult, and many had to be left behind.

The entire demeanor of the camp changed. The ferocity, the eagerness to fight, had vanished from the eyes of all except the bravest of them. Instead, the Narnians became resigned, tired, and almost as if ready to die. After a while, everything and everyone started looking gray and faded. The woods, which once offered so much freedom, barely held any appeal anymore.

Sometimes, there would be deserters that would just break off from the march, and head in different direction, never to be seen again. There wasn't much warning for the first one; all of a sudden, a soldier fell down weeping with an almost hysterical shriek. His companions tried to help him, but he only screamed out that they were all doomed. He ran for the woods and was never seen again.

In the course of a few days, Peter saw Caspian grow haggard and weary. Even Susan changed. Though she maintained her fierce determination, her quiet resolve to see the war to the end, Peter could see desperate, silent tears in her eyes at times. She spent more time with Lucy and Edmund, gathering them around her like lost sheep. She trembled sometimes, as if she was cold and such a look of sorrow would come over her face.

Though winter was slowly giving way to spring, the wet and the cold made everyone miserable and their days seemed bleaker than ever. Death and sickness were constant their constant companions.

One day, on their tedious march south, amidst the groaning of the weary and the squelching of mud under their feet, Caspian drew Peter aside.

"I don't know what's going to happen," Caspian said, as they stood under the cover of a tree. Caspian held his cloak over the both of them, though it did little to keep them dry. The raindrops rolled down Peter's face like tears, dripping off his chin to moisten his collar. "I don't know how long we can keep this up, just _surviving_. We'll have to make a stand soon and I… well, I just don't know. The Resistance was strong, but our forces are too small. I don't know if we can defeat them anymore.

"Peter… the next time we face the Telmarines, it will not be a raid or any small battle. It will be our last stand. If we are defeated, all will be lost. Many will die…"

"That's why we _cannot_ lose," Peter said determinedly. "We must have hope."

Caspian sighed deeply. His hair hung limply against his face and Peter thought that Caspian had never looked so worn and tired. "Look around you Peter. We are clinging to the last of our hope."

So Peter turned and looked. He saw old men, bent with age but still hefting swords across their backs. He saw the noble centaurs with their children, stoic and fierce despite the harsh conditions. Edmund walked by, lips bruised and chapped, looking far nobler and grown up than Peter had ever seen him. He was holding Lucy's hand to help her through the tough terrain, and though she was pale with hunger and cold, her eyes shone with strength and untiring courage.

"You," Peter said, grasping cold, damp hands in his own, "are a strong and good leader. You have brought them this far. Whether we win or lose, whether we all triumph in our victory or die with honor, only to meet again in Aslan's country, we will do so without fear or regret. We must not despair, Caspian. There is always hope."

Caspian looked as if he was at the last of his strength, but Peter's words gave him renewed vigor.

"I'm so afraid for you," Caspian whispered. He looked nervous all of a sudden. "Listen, I had some companions from long ago, before my exile. They are seafarers, brave Telmarine Lords who did not fear the sea like so many others. I don't know where they are now, but I'm sure that they have remained loyal to me, and will protect my friends.

Peter… I can arrange safe passage for you away from here. You can bring your family with you, should things go wrong. If we should be defeated, I shudder to think of what will befall you."

Peter smiled sadly. "I know what you're thinking of, what you're afraid of." The image of Miraz's last words to him flashed through Peter's mind. "_Don't_ be. I know what will happen if we are overcome. But mark my words, they can chain me to Miraz's horse and parade me through their streets and I _will not be afraid_. If we are to lose this war, I will either die in battle with you, or face my ruin with all the dignity I can muster.

Neither the pain of death, nor all the terrors that Miraz will inflict on me, can make me leave you." Peter took Caspian's hand and pressed the prince's fingers to his chest, where Deiana's ring still dangled there from a chain under his shirt.

"This is our lives, our homes, our freedoms," Peter said softly. "We're all here together to fight for those that matter most. How can you ask me to run away? And don't worry about Lucy or Edmund. They are far more valiant you can imagine. This is their war too, Caspian."

"Oh, Peter," Caspian groaned, and laid his head on Peter's shoulder, burying his face in the damp golden hair. He grabbed onto Peter's shoulders and let silent tears fall. They stood like that for awhile, rainwater slowly falling around them, a raggedy cloak hiding their faces, Peter holding Caspian's shaking frame.

When Peter pulled away to return to the others, Caspian grasped his arm. "Stay with me tonight?" the prince said, in a quiet, quivering voice. For a moment, Caspian looked so afraid, so unsure of himself.

In response, Peter took his face in his hands and kissed him tenderly, a promise of the intimacy they would share later.

It was a day later that the Narnians dug in and set up their camp. Though the woods were deep, the very earth vibrated with the march of the enemy coming to meet them in battle.

Susan was snappish that evening as they spread out a map of their defenses and tried to discuss war strategy. It was when she got into yet another argument with Caspian that she finally showed signs of cracking under the pressure. It was only for an instant, but Susan's one moment of weakness left the prince uncomfortably shaken.

"What does it matter?" she cried, a hint of hysteria in her voice. "They are so many. We can't possibly…. Oh, we can't." A high-pitched sob escaped, but Susan clapped a hand over her mouth. It only took a few seconds to compose herself.

The outburst affected the prince more than people though. As soon as the discussion was over, Caspian turned away and, without a word, found out Peter and grabbed the boy's hand to lead him off. He walked his lover to the very edges of the camp, away from prying eyes.

"Are you angry?" Peter asked hesitantly, noting the passion in his eyes and his wrinkled brow.

Caspian did not speak at first, only looked at him so intently that Peter felt slightly uncomfortable.

"My mother's ring," the prince finally said. "Do you still have it?"

"Why, of course," said Peter, touching the chain around his neck.

"It was a dear little present. I think it's time I had it back now."

"Um, a-alright," Peter stammered, rather taken aback. Uncertainly, he slipped the chain from his neck and dropped the ring into Caspian's waiting palm. He was shocked when the prince abruptly dropped to his knees and took his left hand.

He slid the chain off and discarded it. Caspian looked up Peter with fervent love in his eyes and slid the ring onto Peter's third finger.

"Wh-what're you... Are you…? Oh!" Peter said ineloquently.

"Twenty years, and I've never made a surer decision than this one, right here and now. Will you marry me, Peter Pevensie?"

"Right here? Right now?" gasped Peter, flushing immediately.

"Yes!" cried Caspian, smile widening. "What better time? What better place? We can call on Glenstorm to perform the ceremony; he is chief centaur, after all. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? Oh, Peter, if I am to die, I don't want to die without having belonged to you, and only you."

"Don't you talk about death," Peter said with tears in his eyes, but he was smiling. "This is a happy day."

"Well?" Caspian urged. "What is your answer?"

With a joyous laugh, Peter bent down and embraced Caspian so hard they nearly toppled over. "Yes!" he cried. "Oh, yes!"

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Notes: Once again, thanks to everyone who's still reading this! Please, please feedback and lemme know what you think!


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 28: MAN ON MAN SEX!!!

Notes: I'd like to thank everyone wholeheartedly for reading my story, especially all my reviewers. I'd like to thank all my anonymous reviewers as well, since I can't reply to them. You guys are awesome! *hugz*

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Chapter 28:

There was no elaborate wedding for Peter and the prince, no flowers, or glittering clothes befitting royalty. The chief of the centaurs, Glenstorm, was the one who married them. He looked beautiful and somber as he spoke the words in an ancient and musical language while Peter and Caspian held hands before him. Everyone in the camp was somber-faced as they gathered around the couple in a circle of destitute-looking people.

Oddly enough, Glenstorm looked more royal than any of them, with his dark naked torso proudly upright, and deep booming voice.

A light drizzle was falling, and Susan's hands were damp as she drew Edmund and Lucy close to her. She was pale-faced and solemn as she looked on her brother. How grand it was, that Peter, dear Peter with his nervous smile, was getting married and finally gaining some happiness after all he'd been through! But at the same time, how sad it was that this was an act born out of desperation, that these were probably the last days they'd spend married!

When Glenstorm finished the brief, yet lovely ceremony, Caspian embraced Peter tightly to him and kissed his lips. Peter smiled for joy and his happiness was infectious. Somber faces were replaced with the happiest of smiles and within moments of their becoming married, the entire wood seemed to ring with happy shouts and cheers.

Without much ceremony, the fauns started a wild dance, their hooves creating a frenzied rhythm on the ground. The forest floor vibrated with the rhythmic thumping of every step and the Narnians' raucous, _defiant_ laughter echoed through the wood. Lucy joined in the dance halfway, chestnut hair unbound, laughing joyously and seemingly oblivious to the bleakness around her.

There was no longer any worry of giving away their position to the Telmarine soldiers. For that night, the Narnians refused to be refugees and they danced, sang, and called out with all their hearts. It was a celebration of life, of love that even the darkness of war couldn't conquer, and of freedom, before either defeat or death would snatch it away.

There was no wedding feast afterwards, just rations of near-molding bread and dirty potatoes roasted over an open fire. Someone passed around a flask of strong liquor and it burnt Caspian's throat as it went down and immediately made him tipsy.

The dancing kept going with everyone occasionally joining in. There were no pauses, just new dancers replacing the old ones when they tired, their bodies melding into the group seamlessly. There was no music, except the ever-constant rhythm and the occasional snatches of song.

Peter laughed as someone grabbed him by the waist and spun him around and around in time with the stamping feet. Faces became blurs and he was dizzy and panting when he finally broke away from the circle of dancers. Everything smelled of sweat and earth, and he could hear Lucy's lovely laughter though he could barely see her, she was spinning so fast.

Sometime during the night, as Peter sat idling and smiling by the fire, watching Caspian and Edmund dancing awkwardly with Lucy, Susan came up to him. She pressed a crumpled handkerchief into his hand with a slightly shaky smile.

He found a single, tiny pearl wrapped inside, not so round or so bright. He had no idea where she could have gotten it, but he knew it must have been a hidden treasure of hers. Susan never owned many fine things, and Peter understood the gravity of this gift.

Wordlessly, he clasped her to him. "I wish mother and father were here," she whispered to him, and allowed a few tears to fall. "They'd be so happy to see you. Imagine, what would mother say?"

"She'd try not to cry because she'd be so happy. Then she'd chide you for not finding anyone to marry," Peter replied, smiling and kissing her hair.

Susan laughed at that and Peter was glad to see her in good spirits.

It was late when the merriment started to die down. The rejoicing quieted until there were just a few people still dancing around the campfires. Most of them had curled up to go to sleep, or sat huddled together talking of happier times.

The smoke of the fires obscured the features of everyone around him and Caspian felt tired yet giddy. In the dark, he reached out for Peter but couldn't find him. He looked around, and saw that everyone was looking rather expectantly at him.

Susan glanced at him and subtly nodded her head in one direction. Slowly, Caspian realized that the singing had stopped and the crowd had dispersed somewhat so that there was a path open in front of him. The largest of their tents was set up in the distance and everyone had gone quiet.

His wine-muddled brain cleared a bit and Caspian realized that Peter must be waiting for him.

As if in a dream, he walked past the crowd, heart thumping in anticipation. As he passed Rynelf, the soldier took Caspian's arm in a strong grip and looked as if he wanted to say something, but merely ended up whispering, "I wish you happiness, my prince," with a small bow.

"Thank you," Caspian replied earnestly, before pulling away. He didn't see the broken-hearted look in his old friend's eyes as he went to meet Peter.

He smiled amusedly when he entered the tent. Someone had taken pains to make the interior as nice as possible. There was a table with a washbasin and an unlit oil lamp. Other various objects of comfort, usually mundane but absolutely luxurious during hard times, were scattered here and there.

There was a chair with an actual cushion, clean cotton towels hanging over the back, a small soap dish full of dried flowers, and something that looked oddly like a chamber pot in the corner. There was even a worn but clean rug spread out on the ground.

He found Peter sitting on the narrow cot with his knees drawn up and blanket wrapped tightly around himself. All his clothes were folded neatly and sat on a nearby stool. Even in the gloom, Caspian could see that Peter was shaking and the prince's smile faded a bit in worry.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, sitting down next to the other boy and putting a hand on Peter's knee.

Peter nodded, but lowered his eyes. Caspian noticed how tightly Peter was clutching the blanket to his naked chest.

"What's the matter?" Caspian asked.

"I-I just wish I wasn't so... so…" Peter whispered, and bit his lip. He touched his face with trembling fingers, right where the ugly scar was. "This isn't how I wanted you to see me in our marriage bed."

"Oh, Peter," Caspian sighed. He took Peter's hand and held it tightly, trying to be as reassuring as possible. Oh, how he hated Miraz for all he'd done to Peter! The haunted look in his beloved's eye stirred such sorrowful and protective emotions in him. Silently, Caspian vowed that night to make Peter feel as loved and as cherished as possible, so that he may leave any feelings of inadequacy behind.

Boldly, Caspian leaned forward and pressed his lips directly onto the burn scar. Peter gasped and flinched. This was the first time that Caspian had touched _that_ so intimately and he was afraid the prince would be disgusted. But no, Caspian was kissing him so tenderly!

"I'm going to light a lamp," Caspian murmured, and stood. Just as the prince was turning around to find a match, Peter jumped up and flung his arms about Caspian's waist, trapping the blanket between them.

"No, I don't want you to!" Peter cried, burying his face into the back of Caspian's neck. The prince turned, trying to free himself and Peter kissed his lips, holding onto him desperately.

"Just for awhile," Caspian insisted breathlessly, breaking out of Peter's grasp. Fumbling a bit in the dark, Caspian found the oil lamp the nearby table and lit it.

Peter shut his eyes tightly as Caspian turned the ceramic lamp towards him, so that yellow light spilled onto his every contour. He clutched the blanket tighter to himself, hiding from Caspian's concerned eyes.

"_Peter_," Caspian said, and now there was an edge to the prince's voice. Peter looked up into his husband's silhouetted face and trembled again. He felt faint under that dark, intense gaze.

Slowly, Caspian grasped the edges of the blanket and pulled it out of Peter's pale hands. Firmly, yet without much force, the prince peeled away the layers of cloth to reveal Peter's naked body underneath. Peter's breath grew short and his face flushed as ever scar, every bruise, and every inch of ruined (in memory, if not physically) skin was revealed.

With a short, sudden movement, Caspian yanked the blanket away and let it fall to the ground.

Peter cried out softly as he was fully exposed and fought the urge to cover himself with his hands. Squinting in the light, he looked down at what Caspian was gazing so intently at. A skinny body with fair skin that was broken here and there by pink, barely healing marks. His vision blurred and Peter was surprised when a warm teardrop fell from his face to land on his bare foot.

Caspian gently lifted his chin up in both hands, and Peter blinked hard to dispel the nervous tears. Caspian kissed him, covering his lips so sweetly and gently. The prince laid hands on him and Peter shivered at the gentle touch. As the kiss deepened, Caspian ran his warm hands over every inch of Peter's skin, stroking over his chest and down his stomach, thumbs brushing gingerly over each bruise.

Peter sighed against the prince's lips. Heat resonated from Caspian's hands and the bright, healing warmth seemed to spread throughout his body. As if he was drinking it in, the heat swelled within him, filling every pore until Peter's shivering subsided.

"You are so much more than this flesh," Caspian said, his voice thick with desire, his hand resting lightly on a particularly nasty scar on Peter's hip. "The life, the spirit within you is what I love. No matter what he's done to you, you are as pure and bright as the day I first met you."

"Oh, Caspian!" Peter breathed, overwhelmed.

"_I want you_, Peter," Caspian said throatily, his lips against Peter's sensitive neck.

"I want you too," he gasped in return. He found himself almost frantically pulling and unbuckling the ties to Caspian's clothes, pulling the garments off and discarding them until the prince stood just as bare as he was. The prince was muscular and golden-skinned, and looked so beautiful in the flickering light.

"Wait," Peter protested, just as Caspian was about to embrace him. He leaned over the prince and blew out the lamp. "Privacy," he explained with a smile, gesturing towards the outside of the tent.

Caspian laughed softly and kissed him, deeply, passionately. He led Peter to lie down on the cot and he lowered himself over the slighter boy, slowly and gently.

"Are you nervous?" Caspian whispered to him, sliding his hand up one of Peter's thighs.

"Y-yes," Peter whispered back. Except for the occasional frenzied tryst, finished with groping hands and clashing mouths, they had not been fully intimate with each other since _before_. There had been no time or place for lovemaking in the midst of war, but _this_ evening was theirs.

"Me too," Caspian confessed, and Peter smiled and ran his hands through Caspian's hair for comfort. His head fell back with a slight moan as Caspian kissed his sensitive neck, tongue darting out here and there to taste the goose-fleshed skin. The prince took one of his hands and clasped it tightly, while his other hand wandered lightly over Peter's body. As Caspian continued his kisses down to the collarbone, his ran his hand down Peter's back and over his rear and Peter found his legs falling open of their own accord so that Caspian could rest between them.

"May I? Do you want…?" Caspian asked hesitantly, his hand pressing against a buttock and his fingers stroking lightly at the cleft.

"Yes," Peter moaned, lifting his hips slightly. "Oh!" he gasped sharply when Caspian entered him with one finger, then relaxed as he started to thrust it in and out slowly.

Caspian kisses grew heavier, every bit of Peter that he could reach, mouthing every inch of skin. He kissed his lips, his neck, his chest, and each coral nipple until Peter's entire body blushed pink with passion. Peter writhed and moaned incoherently when Caspian pressed two more fingers into him. He bit his lip and grabbed handfuls of the thin sheets below him.

"Relax, my love," Caspian urged, and spread Peter's legs wider, pushing them upwards so they were bent at the knee.

"Ohh, ohh!" Peter cried, as Caspian bent down and kissed the light pubic curls before taking Peter's hardening sex into his mouth. He threw his head and moaned helplessly as Caspian thrust fingers into him and pleasured him with his mouth at the same time.

The prince kissed every inch of Peter's erection, then lifted Peter's hips up so he could tease at the boy's opening with his tongue. Caspian delighted in the frantic noises Peter was making as he licked, kissed, and stroked with fingers the clenching entrance, until the surrounding skin turned pink and puffy.

"Caspian, I… I want…" Peter gasped, his eyes half-closed in pleasure, his face flushed red. It had been _so_ long, too long, since his body had been awakened like this, consumed in a passionate and titillating fire. How wonderful it was, to lose control of all his emotions to someone he trusted!

"How do you want me?" panted the prince, sitting back up and taking one of Peter's hands, kissing it. He was surprised when Peter rose up with a low laugh and wrestled him into a lying position. The cot creaked ominously underneath them as Peter straddled the prince.

Looking lustfully down at him, Peter stroked Caspian's erection a few times before positioning himself over it. Gasping sharply with every inch, he sank down on Caspian until he engulfed the prince within himself.

Caspian groaned deeply and wrapped his hands around Peter's hips as Peter began to move up and down. The Narnian's tight heat clenched delightfully around him and Caspian writhed helplessly with pleasure as Peter had done.

Peter pinned Caspian down by the shoulders for support as he sped up, swiveling his hips every now and then and making Caspian cry out with the incredible friction.

The bed creaked again, and Caspian took Peter's shoulders and reversed their positions once more so that he held Peter tightly within his arms as he thrust in, slow and deep. Peter cried out loudly and wrapped his legs around Caspian's waist as each thrust dragged across his prostate gland and radiated hot jolts of pleasure into his stomach.

Caspian drank in the sight of Peter, so lost in his pleasure. Spots of pink decorated his cheeks and his chest hitched with each strangled moan. Golden hair was tousled and stuck to his fair face. The very sight brought Caspian close to the edge.

Soon, Peter could tell that Caspian was close, with the way the prince's hips were shaking. Caspian took Peter's own erection in a sweaty grip and pumped it in time with his thrusts. The prince's breath grew more and more frenzied, and Peter knew Caspian was on the brink.

"No, don't… don't pull out!" Peter cried, wrapping his legs tighter around Caspian when he felt the prince start to withdraw. "I want it inside me."

With a deep, guttural cry, Caspian thrust one more time and came inside his husband. Peter cried out as well and climaxed in Caspian's hand.

"My love," Caspian murmured, as Peter shook in his arms. He panted and laid himself gently across Peter, kissing and stroking. Slowly, their heartbeats calmed.

Peter closed his eyes and pressed Caspian's face to his chest. He wanted to remember everything, how warm the prince's panting breath was across his sensitive torso, how Caspian's hands couldn't seem to stay still, stroking and stroking over his sweaty skin.

"I love you," he said, and Caspian replied, "I love you."

He smiled in the dark when he felt the prince take his hand and entwine their fingers together. They were finally together again, fully and truly, and Peter fell asleep with that wonderful thought, that they were going to remain like this for the rest of their lives.

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"Any pain?" Caspian asked, gently massaging Peter's foot and rotating it to test the ankle. The colors of the dawn played on the prince's cheek and Peter smiled to see his new husband's (_Husband!_ The very thought gave him a thrill of excitement.) handsome profile in the rosy light.

"None at all. I'm fine," he reassured, from where he was reclining on the cot. It was bitterly cold and Caspian quickly replaced Peter's bare leg under the covers. The prince shivered and looked as if he'd like to dive beneath the blankets to snuggle for a few more minutes, but instead gave Peter's toes a comforting squeeze through the covers before getting up and looking for his cloak.

Peter watched his husband finish dressing with quiet pleasure, the cold dawn making all the details clearer and crisper. He loved how Caspian's face was slightly pink from the cold and how his dark hair was mussed. Peter sighed as Caspian finished doing up all the buckles and stooped down to fix his boots.

"Can you hear that?" Peter whispered, sitting up.

Caspian stilled for a moment, concentrating, before nodding a bit. "I've always heard it, but it's gotten louder these last few days."

Despite the cold, Peter extended his leg and touched his foot to the ground. There was an unmistakable vibration, so deep and quiet it was almost silent, and Peter knew it was the resonance of Miraz's army.

"They're coming," Peter said softly. "_He's _coming."

"Let them come," Caspian declared, without a trace of fear. He took Peter's hands in his, thumb brushing over the golden ring on his third finger. "I'm not afraid because I have _you_."

With those words, Caspian embraced Peter and kissed him passionately. For them, the world was a bit warmer.

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The whole country seemed changed. The cold, wet rain that Peter so hated before had nourished the earth and now, the sky was bright blue without a cloud in the sky and the grass was emerald green and glistening with dew. The trees were sprouting spring blossoms and their perfume was on the breeze was a comfort to the Narnian soldiers.

None of them looked somber that glorious day. It was as if they were marching to victory and not a bloody battle that would be the death of many, perhaps all, of them. Peter, marching among the other Narnian humans, would often catch Caspian's eyes and they would share a loving, longing gaze. The happiness of their new marriage was like a comforting warmth in his stomach, and Peter felt that he no longer feared to die because he had achieved the greatest thing in all the world: he had loved and been loved in return. The golden ring was shining boldly on his finger, and he felt a deep, smug satisfaction that the terror of the Telmarine army could shake him no longer.

And Caspian felt the exact same way. Though he had been brave before, Peter's love further strengthened him until he had no more fear of Miraz, and when he went to meet the King on the battlefield, Caspian met him with a fearless smile.

The horns were sounded, and each army surged forward to meet once again in deadly combat.

Miraz had brought the most powerful weapon he possessed, the Telmarine cavalry. Each knight was heavily armored, armed with a powerful lance, and rode an armored horse. At high speed, these mounts were almost unstoppable.

Even as they charged, Caspian stared unflinchingly at the approaching Telmarine knights.

"Hold your ground, until I give the signal!" he ordered, hearing his troops move restlessly at his back. Susan stood by him silently, bow in one hand, the other hand on the hilt of her sword.

The knights were close now; the thundering of horses' hooves shook the ground.

"Spears, now!" Caspian shouted, and everyone in his unit drew their spears. Gathering close, they immediately fell into a wall formation, their spears forming impenetrable spikes. Caspian, his own spear in hand, braced himself for impact.

It was all over in the next minute. One moment, the horses were galloping towards them and the next, the beasts were screaming as they were impaled on the wall of spears. Caspian shouted as he felt hot blood spray his face. His arms shook and the tip of his spear broke off, embedded in the horse's body. He discarded it and drew his sword, stabbing upwards at the animal's flailing rider.

Through the chaos, he heard the curses and screams of the Telmarine soldiers as they fell. One of their lances pierced the breast of the man next Caspian and he fell down, dead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caspian saw Peter push forwards and retrieve the fallen Narnian's spear to stab the Telmarine in retribution. He could hear Susan's bow singing as arrow after arrow eliminated the dazed enemy.

A piece of armor flew off of one of the horses and struck Caspian in the face, stunning him and giving him a cut above the eye. He grunted and nearly fell.

"Caspian!" he heard Susan call urgently to him.

Groaning, he stood back up and looked around him. Amidst the screams and dying horses, he could see that the first and strongest wave had been defeated. Still, the rest of Miraz's horsed soldiers and infantry were now attacking.

"Charge!" he shouted over the din, and heard the repeated calls from the Narnian generals. The centaurs rushed forwards first, followed by the other fleet-footed. Caspian and his men drew their swords and dove into battle.

They fought valiantly against enemies of greater number, and for awhile, it seemed as if the Narnians would win.

Peter panted from somewhere on the battlefield, flinging sweat from his face. He didn't know how many Telmarines he had felled, but none of them had wounded him so far. He clutched his sword, anticipating his next enemy, but for some reason, they all started falling back. Then, he saw it: the monstrous machine on wheels.

"Caspian!" he just had time to shout before a devastating explosion knocked him and everyone in his vicinity off their feet. He coughed as his face hit the grass.

Still dazed from the blast, Peter saw a crimson blur dart towards the cannon. He gasped in horror as he realized it was Susan, running directly towards the war machine.

"No!" he screamed and scrambled to his feet, running after her. "Susan, _no!_"

"Peter!" Caspian shouted, as he saw Peter break formation, but Peter did not heed him. Recklessly, he ran towards Susan and was almost cut down by one of the enemy, only barely evading him.

He saw the fierce look on her face, saw her clutching her bow, and he knew what she was trying to do. He saw the Telmarine gunners preparing to fire the machine, saw their angry faces, and he knew she wouldn't get there in time.

She stopped a few yards away from the gunners and stopped to nock an arrow. The Telmarine saw her and held the lit torch to the fuse.

With his heart in his throat, Peter made a mad dash towards her. "_Susan! Get down!_"

Just as she was drawing the arrow back to take aim, Peter leapt forward and grabbed her by the strap of her quiver, heard her shriek as he pulled her down with him and covered her with his body. Less than a second later, the world exploded around them in a blast of scorching heat and noise.

Peter couldn't tell if he was groaning, his ears were ringing so loudly and the world was spinning. He touched the side of his face and felt blood.

Utterly disoriented, he felt his sister squirm out from under him and with renewed fervor, run towards the gunners. He saw her draw her sword from her belt. Vaguely, he wondered why she wasn't as deafened as he was, and also why she wasn't using her bow. She wasn't that strong with a sword, was she?

He groaned again. Everything sounded like he was underwater, the shouts, the armor clanking. The Narnians and the Telmarines were all blurs as they fought around him. He rolled over and realized that Susan's bow was underneath him, broken in the fall.

"Oh," he said dumbly, and clutched his head as he tried to sit up.

As Peter struggled to stand, Susan took advantage of the gunners' distraction while they loaded the cannon again. She cut one of them down even as he held the plunger in his hands. He had no time to react as she slashed his throat.

The other three dropped what they were doing and came at her all at once.

Peter watched in horror as Susan disappeared in a flurry of steel, flailing limbs, and spraying blood. Staggering, he ran to help her but two of the enemy came at him with swords, one aiming for his flank, the other for his head. He barely had time to bring the hilt of his sword up to parry the first blow, and the impact of the Telmarine soldier winded him.

Using the momentum of the first man, Peter managed to knock him down by twisting around and striking him in the back. Peter was nearly decapitated by the second one, and threw his head back just in time. Crying out with exertion, he stumbled backwards. The blade caught the side of his neck and drew blood.

The mixture of pain and adrenaline spurred him on and Peter put his own sword to good use, parrying the next few blows and landing his sword in the other man's stomach.

Peter swayed on his feet as his foe fell. He looked up, frantically searching for Susan and was shocked to see her bloodstained but still standing. The Telmarine gunners lay dead at her feet.

Panting, with a wild look in her eyes, she raised her sword above her head and brought it down hard on the cannon. The bronze and stonework held, but the thin metal of her sword threatened to splinter.

Grunting in frustration, she bent down and hefted up one of the fallen Telmarines' heavy battle-axes. With all her strength, she swung it in a high arc and the axe hit the metal with a terrific clang. A hole was cleaved into the heavy cannon, and now the other Narnians were coming to her aid.

Fauns with the war-scythes and centaurs with the broadswords came rushing up in battle-fueled frenzy and hacked brutally away at the cruel machine. The wooden wheels splintered under many blows. The metal and brick cracked, then gave way completely. The Telmarines that tried to attack them were quickly taken down with similar fury.

"Narnians!" Susan cried, raising her sword high again, delighting in the rubble strewn on the ground. "Forward! _Forward_!" She turned and advanced, and the Narnians cheered, running to follow her.

"Hold your ground!" Caspian shouted, as his soldiers rushed passed him to rally to Susan. "No! Stop the advance! Fall back!" But his hoarse cries went unheeded and the prince grew cold with terror, knowing that head-to-head, strength-to-strength, their infantry was no match for that of Miraz's.

"For Narnia!" Susan cried. Her helmet lay discarded on the ground as the Lion's Army rushed forward as one. Caspian doubted if anyone heard his warnings, let alone heeded them.

A few yards off to his left, Peter staggered forwards, holding onto his sword with all his strength. He could feel the blood from his temple soaking into his hair and the smell was making him sick.

He managed to take down one more of the enemy before he stumbled and fell to his knees. He could see the Narnians tearing into the Telmarine line, the Telmarines recoiling at the initial attack but recovering. Groaning, he shut his eyes and tried to clear his head.

Then, someone was at his shoulder, wrapping a comforting arm around him.

"Come on, Peter," Caspian said, stooping down to pull Peter up again. "It's over. It's over, for now, at least. They're retreating." Caspian's voice was quiet with wonder and Peter looked up with a noise of disbelief. It was true.

The Telmarines had fallen back, their infantry scattered and running. He could see Miraz angry and shouting on his stallion, Sopespian at his side, looking bruised and decidedly unhappy.

"We did it," Peter said in quiet awe, grabbing onto Caspian's shoulders to keep upright. The cheers of the Narnian soldiers nearly deafened him again.

"Not alone," Caspian replied with tenseness to his voice. "Look."

Off in the distance, Peter saw something that shocked and thrilled him. There was another battalion of soldiers, attacking Miraz's troops from the north side. At first, Peter thought they were just more of Miraz's men, but he could see that they were no allies of the King. These new soldiers, unknown to either him or Caspian, bore down on their enemies until the Telmarines, attacked on two sides, were forced to retreat.

"Are the Telmarines attacking themselves?" Peter gasped.

Caspian was silent for awhile, then his eyes widened in recognition. "I know that standard," the prince said breathlessly, pointing at the ensign bearing it. "Lord Drinian!"

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Notes: Again, I'm so sorry for the long wait! Thank you all so much for reading. Please please feedback and lemme know what you think!!!!!!!!!


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Chapter 29:

Peter squirmed in his seat as Susan dabbed at his head wound. She wasn't being very gentle.

"You're not being very gentle," he voiced, wincing when she pulled his hair one way to check the wound. "You aren't angry with me for some reason, are you?"

"Why would I be angry?" she huffed, and took up her needle to suture the cut on his scalp.

"Ow!" he gasped, hurriedly biting down on his lip when she pierced him rather suddenly.

"Don't _move_," she ordered snappishly, giving him another yank on the hair. Peter gritted his teeth. She was standing stiffly next to where he sat, her jaw clenched and her eyes rather fierce as her fingers worked each stitch into a knot. She didn't speak.

The fire crackled despondently nearby, doing little to bring heat or light. He shifted uncomfortably again.

"So… you _are_ angry then?" Peter ventured, when he couldn't stand the silence anymore. He sighed when Susan remained tight-lipped. "Are you going to tell me why?"

Susan tied off the last knot and grabbed up a rag. She wiped at the dried blood caked around the wound, abrading the already swollen skin.

"Ow, _careful!_" he complained, eyes scrunching closed and squirming away from her.

With an annoyed noise, she dropped the rag back into the water jug. Standing more in front of him, she took his face in both hands and looked at him seriously.

"I know you feel the need to protect me. But you must not hinder me again as you did today. I must be able to make my decisions without you ruining things."

"What are you talking about? I didn't try to ruin anything!"

"You pushed me down when I could have made that shot, Peter."

"Wha… I saved your life!" Peter protested. "If I hadn't pulled you out of the way, you'd have your brains blown out!"

"Maybe. Or I could have made that shot, saved just a few more soldiers from dying. I suppose we'll never know now, will we?"

"You're actually _blaming _me for saving you?" Peter replied incredulously. "Well, that's the last time I-!"

"No, that's not it at all," she interrupted with a sigh. "Look, Peter, you don't have to look after me. I know what I'm doing here. You _can't_ go leaping in to save me when I clearly don't need to be saved. No one else here would undermine me like that, not even Caspian, because they trust me to do what's right. You understand, don't you? I'm not angry anymore, Peter, because I knew you meant for the best."

"Not angry?" Peter grouched, pulling away and standing. "My entire head is throbbing! Couldn't you have just said so instead of sticking a needle in me and yanking all my hair out?" He gingerly pressed fingers to his new stitches, wincing again. "And I dounderstand. It must have been absolutely beastly of me to have tried to save _my own sister_. And you know what? I'd do it again."

Susan huffed and crossed her arms, eyes blazing. She looked as if she wanted to yell but merely set her jaw tightly and ground out, "Just remember what I said. Oh, and don't be such a child," she said, turning and walking away. "I could have used a much bigger needle."

Peter held back a frustrated groan as she left him alone with the fire. His head felt like it was splitting apart and the irony ate at him, how that very wound was sustained because of her. He snatched up some clean bandages and went off for some solitude.

,……………………………………..

……………………………………….

"What news do we have about Drinian and his men?" Susan asked without preamble as she re-joined Caspian, Glenstorm, Reepicheep, and the others. They had all been eagerly waiting to speak with Lord Drinian and his men after the rather unexpected change of loyalty, but the Telmarine traitors had withdrew.

Caspian shot her a look that clearly asked "Where have you been?" before holding up a crisp-looking paper message.

"Lord Drinian seeks our aid. He and his men have become refugees when they turned against the king and now they are too scattered to operate fully. Their forces are little and they have few resources. He wants… he _asks_ for a peaceful meeting between himself and our leaders."

"Not quite, my prince," Reepicheep spoke up. The Mouse was bristling slightly, paw tight around his sword belt. He spoke to Susan. "The Prince Caspian speaks well, but the Telmarine Lord was not quite so diplomatic. In fact, in his message, he _demands_ a presence of Prince Caspian, with no more than two companions, at his encampment so that they may discuss the creation of a new Telmarine militia under both their commands."

"Who does he think he is?" said Trumpkin, his voice just below shouting. The Dwarf's face was red.

"It's understandable," Caspian replied, "that Lord Drinian would be apprehensive about sending a missive here. This is a Narnian camp, after all, and he needs to care for the welfare of his soldiers."

"His words are 'Telmarine militia!'" said Susan angrily, quickly skimming the page. "This is completely preposterous. After years of fighting for our lives, our homes, he wants us to join with him to form a _Telmarine militia_?! This is against everything we stand for…!"

"He wants an alliance!" Caspian interrupted, her angry tirade. "We _need _an alliance. The only reason we haven't lost the battle today is because they came to our aid. Whatever he wants to call this alliance can be discussed but we need to meet with him."

Caspian looked around for approval and was relieved to see at least a few nods. But some of the Beasts were clearly against the idea.

"No disrespect to your majesty," said Trufflehunter, getting up on his hind paws, "but these are Telmarines we're talking about. For centuries, people like Lord Drinian have oppressed us. Most of the people we shelter here have been victims of their cruelty. I'm an old badger, and I remember how many homes were lost and how many families were murdered in the name of Telmar. It would be… difficult for us to fight with them, even against a common enemy."

"I, for one, would rather fight alongside those who fight for the same reason," Glenstorm intoned, nodding his dark head.

"We need their help," Caspian insisted, looking almost desperate.

"We don't need their help," Susan snapped, holding the paper so tightly it crumpled. "It doesn't sound like there's much help they can give us, anyway."

"Our forces are not strong enough to defeat Miraz's!" Caspian cried. "You know that! Look, I understand what you mean about the integrity of this army, but it's a miracle we've held out for so long. The Telmarines have more soldiers, better and more weaponry, and more access to resources. I admit Lord Drinian won't be able to give us as much as that, but he _can _help us! There are things he knows, information about Miraz's army…"

"I _meant_," Susan interrupted, "that we don't need them because you can challenge the king to single combat."

The group grew quiet and Caspian flushed as every gaze turned on him. Susan was staring at him with intensity and some strange smugness in her blue eyes.

"Prince Caspian has already made that challenge, and it was refused," said Glenstorm after a short, contemplative silence.

"Then he must make it again, if he's willing," she replied.

"I'm willing enough, but if Miraz has refused the first time, what makes you think he'd agree this time?" Caspian asked testily.

"He was safe behind his castle walls last time, while his troops did battle for him. But now, he marches with them and must appear a proper leader amongst them. How can he refuse, again, when his men are looking to him for courage?"

"Susan speaks the truth," Glenstorm agreed, gazing at Caspian.

"Yes, that is a good point," murmured Trumpkin, nodding, and many of the others replied with something similar. Caspian felt his stomach sinking and his face flushed with vexation at Susan, partly because he knew that his own honor would not allow him to refuse.

She stared at him a moment, then briskly stepped over and took his arm, drawing him away from the others, muttering some excuse or other.

She stepped close to him once they were alone, crossing her arms. "Well, Caspian?" she demanded. "What is it? I thought that you'd be glad to make the challenge again."

"I… I don't know," he said softly, lowering his head.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" she replied. "It was your idea in the first place and now you have another chance at it."

His gaze flickered to somewhere in the distance and with a frown, Susan followed his line of sight. A bit ways off, Peter was sitting and talking with Edmund. Edmund had his hands held close to the fire for warmth, but Peter held his in his lap, fingers toying with the ring on his finger. In an instant, her expression softened.

"I understand," she whispered, turning back to Caspian and seeing the pain on his face, "but you aren't the only one with happiness at stake, Caspian. If you don't want him to know, I won't say anything," she added.

He sighed and tore his eyes away from Peter. "I know," he said softly. "It's not just that, either." He didn't elaborate any further and Susan didn't press.

She looked at him sadly for a moment before taking his arm in a tight grip.

"I can do it," she said fiercely. "Let me challenge Miraz!"

"No!" he immediately said. "This is my fight. I must face Miraz by myself. Don't worry, you can trust me to do what is right."

There was a flash of resentment in her eyes. "It's just as much my fight as it is yours," she said brusquely before walking back towards the gathered group, their private conversation over. Caspian followed, sighing, wishing for once that he and Susan could get along.

"It is agreed then," said Caspian to those assembled. "I will send another challenge to the king. He will not likely refuse."

"But what about Drinian?" asked Trumpkin impatiently. "Should we or should we not make an alliance with him?"

"I think it's obvious that we must," said Caspian. "While there's no guarantee whether Miraz will accept or not, I don't know how long we can last without aid."

"Well then who shall we send if not Prince Caspian?" asked Trufflehunter. "Who can we send that Drinian will trust?"

"I can go," Peter spoke up. Caspian nearly jumped when he suddenly realized that Peter had joined them.

"Peter, what are you talking about?" Susan said, the same time Caspian burst out, "That's out of the question!"

"He'll trust me," said Peter adamantly. "I was the one who persuaded him to go against Miraz in the first place. He knows me."

"Yes, but how can _we _trust him to not attack you?" Caspian replied frantically. Of all the solutions he'd imagined, sending Peter to play ambassador was not one of them. "How do we know you'll be safe-"

"You were quick enough to trust him before," Susan cut in with an accusing look.

"That's because _I _was to go!"

"Caspian," said Peter, trying to placate, "I know I can trust him to do what's right. An alliance with Drinian is the best thing we can do right now. This is a good thing. How else are we to defeat Miraz?"

"If Peter says he can trust Drinian, that's good enough for me," said Susan.

Caspian looked at her, a little aghast. Didn't she care about her brother being sent into dangerous territories? Who knew how many men Drinian had at his disposal? What if they turned on Peter?

"It's decided then," agreed Trumpkin, followed by the nods and agreements of many of the others.

…………………………………..

………………………………….

"How's the head?" Caspian asked quietly, leaning over Peter and parting the blond hair to check the wound. It was crudely bandaged, probably by Peter himself.

"Still hurts. Throbs like a nuisance," Peter murmured, his eyes half lidded. "Don't care much, though. 'M just tired."

Gently, Caspian kissed Peter's forehead. The Narnian's hair looked so much darker in the dim lamplight. The warm yellow light spilled over Peter's face and neck as he lay on the cot, blankets pressed close to his chest. His skin had taken on an almost buttery color and looked so smooth.

"You took quite a hit. Still got all your memories?" Caspian asked, smiling. He took Peter's hand in his lap and lightly squeezed the fingers. The tenseness of Peter's earlier decision lay unspoken between them.

"I'm fine," said Peter, smiling back up at his husband. "It's more of a laceration, not so much of a bump."

"Then, what's the name of this month?" Caspian asked, playfully trailing his fingers down Peter's chest.

"January," Peter whispered, enchanted by how dark and honey-like Caspian's skin was. The Telmarine's hair was dark like ink in the low light. His lips were chapped and there was a thin, superficial cut above Caspian's eyebrow that ran down to his temple like a red thread.

"What was my mother's favorite color?"

"Um, I don't know."

"See, you don't remember!" Caspian teased. "You have a concussion."

"I don't remember because you never told me, you ass!" Peter said laughing.

The skin around Caspian's eyes crinkled when he smiled. Peter reached up and traced his husband's cheekbones, wondering if Caspian ever looked more perfect than that moment.

"What's my name?" asked the prince, turning his face and leaning into Peter's hand, kissing the fingers he thought were so elegant.

"Caspian," Peter murmured with a chuckle, "my head wasn't hit _that _hard."

"And…" Caspian continued, leaning down so their noses bumped. "How long have you loved me?"

"Um… since our second kiss."

"_What_?" Caspian gasped in mock-affront. "I believe the correct answer was: 'from the day I first saw you!'"

Peter giggled and pushed at the prince. "Do you even remember the day we first met? I threw a cup of wine at you."

"Mm, well that's when I knew I loved _you_," Caspian said, nuzzling at Peter's neck. He kissed the softness of Peter's throat, feeling his love's fragile pulse under his lips. Sighing, the prince lowered his head down onto Peter's chest and grasped his husband's hand tightly.

"You're troubled," Peter whispered, running a hand over Caspian's brow and all the little creases from frowning.

"I'm just worried about you," replied Caspian, voice slightly muffled by fabric and Peter's body.

"Don't be. You trust me, don't you?"

"I do, Peter, I do. It's just… I'm finally with you again and I'd die if I were to lose you. I… I don't think I can live without you."

"Ohh…" Peter sighed, gently stroking Caspian's hair. His voice trembled with emotion and he didn't know what to say except, "I love you."

After a moment, Caspian sat up with a sound of displeasure. "I know you did what you thought was right," he said. "I neither have the power or the right to stop you, but I don't like it."

"Please don't be like this…"

The prince took Peter in his arms then and kissed him, silencing whatever protests. Peter's moaned softly as Caspian dropped feather-light kisses across his face and his neck, then lay down beside him. There were no more words spoken for a long time.

Eventually, Peter fell into a light sleep amidst gentle caresses, more of a doze than a real slumber. He slipped in and out of meaningless dreams while the lamplight continued to flicker and the whistling wind accompanied the noises of the camp outside.

When he woke up a while later, he could tell it was late by how silent it was. The lamp was still lit and Caspian was no longer lying next to him, but sitting at the nearby table and scribbling something on parchment.

"What's that you're doing?" Peter called, his voice a bit hoarse. The pain in his head hadn't quite died down.

Caspian looked up from his work in surprise and smiled. He fumbled with the papers a bit and held up a drawing for Peter to see. It was a moderately good portrait of Peter asleep, each line drawn with loving care, though a bit amateurish.

"Why, that's lovely," Peter murmured sleepily, before his eyes slipped closed again.

"Thank you," Caspian said, blushing a bit. "Do you want some water?" he asked, as an afterthought, noticing how dry Peter's throat sounded. But, the Narnian had fallen back asleep.

He didn't really wake up, Caspian thought, just slipped out of sleep for a few seconds.

Seeing Peter turn over slightly and snuggle deeper into the threadbare blankets, Caspian breathed out a slight sigh of relief. He took his arm off the paper he was covering, hoping the ink hadn't smudged. It was what he'd actually been working on, the message that would be sent to Miraz. The challenge. He felt horribly guilty, keeping it a secret from Peter, but Caspian couldn't bear the thought of telling his newlywed that he'd most likely be going to his death, especially since Peter would be on his way to Drinian fairly soon.

A few hours later, the lamp had burned out and Caspian had also dozed off at the table, worrying himself to sleep.

For awhile, Peter had been shifting this way and that, face scrunched up slightly in discomfort. The cold was bothering him and so was the headache.

Outside, the Narnians dispersed until only a few people were still left standing guard or sitting restlessly by the campfires.

It grew utterly cold and dark in the tent. The night reached an hour when everything seemed to stand silent and unmoving. Then, Peter stilled. It was almost as if an invisible presence came and eased his discomfort. His fidgeting stopped and every muscle relaxed. Within minutes, he fell into a stupor.

A wind from outside fluttered the canvas opening of the tent. Like something tangible, the oddly sweet-smelling breeze traveled within the enclosure. Instead of chilling the interior, however, the wind was warm as if it were a breath of summer air.

Light tendrils whispered across Peter's brow and ruffled his golden hair. The air came in warm, rolling intervals, like breathing. As Peter dreamt below his eyelids, the breeze blew again and lifted the blankets from his shoulder.

Gracefully, he sat up and opened his eyes without really waking. The action was seamless, as if he had simply shifted from one dream into the next. The blankets fell off him and pooled at his feet as Peter stood up on steady feet.

Barefoot and only clothed in his sleeping things, he stepped out of the tent. He didn't wake as his feet touched the frost on the ground. Even the cold didn't wake him. Strangely, the frost seemed to melt before him as he walked, as if some invisible breath was casting its heat on the ground.

Eyes wide and unblinking, Peter slowly walked in the direction of the woods.

"Peter?" Susan called out, quickly standing from where she was tending to a faun's arrow wound. She was one of the few who had stayed up till the late hours of the night, sleep eluding her.

"Peter!" she called again, running up to her under-clothed brother when he failed to respond.

She was the firs to notice him, but soon, people gathered around, whispering and wondering. "What is it?" one of them asked.

Susan grabbed on of Peter's shoulders and shook it, but he simply walked out of her grasp.

"I think he's sleepwalking!" said a talking Owl.

"No, he's not," Susan said, following Peter as he continued heading for the trees. "If he was sleepwalking he would have woken up by now. I… I think he's in a trance!"

"Oh, _look_!" someone cried, his voice shrill and urgent.

In the distance, there was a great golden beast. Strangely, everyone could see Him clearly though it was night time. He was at the same time solid yet incorporeal. For a second, Susan was sure she could see Him, all fur and muscle and heavy paws, but He would dim and melt into nothingness the next second, appearing and reappearing like sunshine during a cloudy day.

"Don't stop him," she whispered in awe, watching as Peter made his way to where Aslan was. She wasn't even worried for him anymore, heading barefoot and unarmed into the woods, because she knew her brother would be protected.

Back in the tent, Caspian awoke with a start. He groaned at the cramp in his back, as he had fallen asleep face-down on the table, and shivered in the gloom.

"Peter?" the prince called out, alarmed when he realized he no longer heard the other boy's quiet breathing. Squinting into the darkness, Caspian could just make out the tousled blankets on the ground.

A second later, he jumped up and grabbed his cloak before walking out.

"Peter!" he shouted, just as he saw his husband pass out of sight, swallowed up by the dark woods. Ignoring the people gathered around, Caspian made to dash after him.

"No, you mustn't interfere!" cried Susan. She grabbed him and tried to hold him back.

"I'm going after him," Caspian declared, shaking her off.

"No, your majesty!" cried someone else, a centaur. "It is Aslan himself who has Called Peter, and it is not our place to stop him."

"I don't care _who _called him! I'm not letting him go off by himself!"

Without another word, he ran for the woods, calling Peter's name.

The woods were surprisingly warm and a strange fog gathered all around him, obscuring his way. Caspian struggled through the forest, trying to catch up. For some odd reason he couldn't fathom, Peter was walking a lot easier and faster than he was though Peter had no shoes and it was utterly dark.

The paleness of Peter's shirt was like a beacon to him, always far ahead but never completely out of sight. A few times, Caspian tripped over some hidden tree root and scraped his shins.

Peter was getting farther and farther out of reach. Caspian pushed his arms in front of him in a vain attempt to dispel some of the fog. He had just stumbled up a small hill in time to see Peter disappear into a cave in the distance.

……………………….

…………………………

Peter felt like he was walking on air. He lost himself in the sweet-smelling fog that surrounded him and threw himself recklessly into the power that drew him closer and closer to… _something_.

He knew that he was asleep, or at least that he wasn't quite awake. He heard people's voices calling out to him from far off, but they were dim and inconsequential. Caspian's faint cries made him falter and his heart beat in consternation, but he only hesitated for a moment before continuing on his path.

He couldn't feel his feet stepping over the forest floor, couldn't even see where he was going, but took each step with confidence and utter fearlessness.

The mist sighed and twisted around him. He couldn't feel the cold or the sharp rocks under his feet, only the silent promise of safety. It was almost as if some invisible string was pulling him along, but he would have gone along willingly just the same.

When he came to, he found himself in a cave. The walls around him were a red earthy color, and there were ripples of light illuminating the whole place, as if there was water nearby reflecting sunlight.

He heard a Call, so sweet, beautiful, and strong, and he recognized it immediately as the voice of the Great Lion that had spoken to him before. With a tremulous smile, he stepped deeper into the cave.

Further and further he walked. It seemed to him that the cave was merely an entrance to some enormous underground cavern.

They were waiting for him, the Great Lion and a woman. Peter instantly knew her, as if he had known her all his life. She was the queen that had appeared so often in his dreams, the ghost that haunted him in his darkest moments, and the specter that had frightened him to life when all hope had departed.

She stood by Aslan, her face now healthy with an ethereal glow, her lips rosy. Her raven hair fell majestically down her back and her dress was white. A wreath of golden flowers crowned her dark head. In her hands she held a shining sword.

She looked at him gently with her sky-blue eyes and he his heart beat with fond recognition.

"Peter," Aslan called in welcome.

"Aslan, you've come at last!" Peter cried, voice choked with joy and longing. "I've longed to see you ever since last time. But… why have you called me here?"

"You have done well, Son of Adam, since I last came to you," said He. "You have been far braver, suffered far more, and done more than I could ever have asked of you. For that reason, I deem you worthier than all your predecessors to receive this sword: the sword Rhindon that belonged to the first king in Narnia to be called Peter."

Reverently, Peter knelt at the queen's feet. Ever her clothes seemed other-worldly, made of star-stuff, as if she had traveled years and years and untold distances just for him, before she had to return to Aslan's country. Gingerly, he touched the hem of her gown and brought the fabric to his lips, laying upon it the gentlest of kisses.

But when she offered the sword to him in both hands, he shied away apprehensively. It all seemed like a dream…

"Oh, I daren't!" he gasped.

"Do you doubt the prophecy?" Aslan said. "You are the scion of King Peter the Magnificent and the last king, King Peter the tenth. Surely, you have always known this to be true, in your heart. It is your destiny to bring about peace for Narnia."

"Me? King Peter's heir?" Peter spoke with disbelief, the kind of disbelief that was coupled with fear. "No, I never thought it could be true! There must be hundreds more fitting than me! I'm just… myself."

"Do not doubt your worth, Son of Adam," the Lion chastised gently, "for I have seen all you've done. I have felt your fear as a child when your father died and your mother was taken. You showed courage, young as you were, when you took care of your family. When your sister left, you showed even more courage when you stayed to nurture Edmund and Lucy, even though your heart cried out at the injustices of the Telmarine rule and you longed to fight.

"I have felt your fear and your pain when you sacrificed yourself so that the people in your village may live, willingly selling yourself into slavery for the sake of others. I felt your heartbreak, Peter, when you had to leave your brother and sister behind."

Peter jerked in surprise when he felt hot tears dripping down his chin. He felt ashamed that he was crying like a child in front of Aslan, but the tears came trickling down and he could not hold them back. And when he looked into the kind, knowing eyes of the Lion, he no longer wanted to. All the pain he had felt over the years that he had carefully kept dammed were now being drained from him in shuddering waves.

"I saw how bravely you faced your captors, and how you stood up to Miraz when he made his advances. Yet, bravery is not your only virtue. Many people are brave, but not can be kind kind.

"Despite your hatred for the Telmarines who destroyed your family, you loved Prince Caspian. Despite him being a Telmarine prince, everything you should have despised, you did not let prejudice cloud your judgment and you saw him as a person rather than a race. You were able to love him, Peter, just as you were able to love the other slaves.

"It was this same ability to love that made you mistakenly sacrifice yourself to protect your sister, even though _love _was what kept you from giving in to Miraz earlier. It was the same love that later made you see what little good there was in the king, the same love that drew you to nurture the infant Rilian and care for Queen Prunaprismia, though she tried to murder you. And that love, Peter, has brought you much sorrow, yet you retained it throughout your hardships."

"There were at times," Peter spoke haltingly, bringing his hands to his face to wipe away the stream of tears, "that I imagined it was a weakness." The Queen looked down at him, her eyes shining with sorrow and silent tears running in silver rivulets down her pale face. "If I… if I hadn't _loved _Caspian so much, it wouldn't have hurt so much when he left me. And it wouldn't hurt so much now, wondering and wondering whether Miraz might have been… a better man." He whispered the last words, fighting the urge to hold his hands over his mouth, but Aslan knew what was in his heart anyway.

"It is no weakness, Peter," He said, His deep and comforting voice washing over Peter and vibrating in the boy's blood. "_You _are not weak. Knowing you would be captured and most likely killed, you chose to stay in the castle and fight, even though I offered you an easier way and would not have condemned you for choosing it. You were far from weak when you fought by Caspian's side, or challenged Caspian himself when you felt that your honor was at stake."

"Why me? And why _now_?" Peter cried. "Why not my father or my mother, when Miraz began terrorizing the land? Why not some other child just as brave as I am, who could have stopped the scourges of war generations earlier? Why all this… this suffering?"

Aslan sighed and brought His face close to Peter's so that His breath ruffled the golden locks. "I cannot _make _a king, Peter, no matter the circumstances. He has to make himself. And now, you yourself have taken on the Task that will most probably end this war."

Peter looked at Him, confused.

"You have offered to ride forth and treat with Lord Drinian. Though you did not see it before, this is a most important Task because it will unite Narnians and Telmarines, though they have warred for generations. Go to Drinian and aid him so that he may aid you and you will see that it is not only the Narnians who have suffered under the cruelty of the Telmarine kings. Then _you_ must unite them, Peter, and lead them to victory. Together, defeat Miraz and all his supporters so that there may be peace.

"Take up the sword Peter, and it will help you!"

Peter stood shakily and reached for Rhindon, but _still _hesitated. "What about Caspian?" he asked. "Surely, it's _his _destiny to be king. This is _his _war, Aslan. I can't take the kingship from him because it is rightfully his!"

"But it was his forefathers who stole this land from yours, and brought about ruin for its people. Have you forgotten? What you call rightfully his was taken by force and inherited through a line of self-declared kings."

"But Sir, you said that you cannot make a king, that he must be self-made. What of Caspian's virtues, then? Hasn't he sacrificed just as much as I have? Even more than I, actually, because I didn't have much to begin with. He lost his princedom, his home, and his whole way of life for _my _sake, for love! He fought just as bravely as I ever could have, and he had so much more to lose, because don't you see? He's a _Telmarine _and fighting for Narnia must be splitting him apart! He's sacrificed his very identity for Narnia, all for trying to bring peace between our people. How can I, who has lost far less than he has, take his kingship from him?"

Peter spread his hands in a desperate plea, his face flushed with emotion at how torn he felt inside.

"Your words are true," said Aslan, "and most noble. But can you truly give up _your _kingship, destined to be yours at birth, to the Telmarine prince and have him rule over you? Would you let all your suffering culminate in this: that _he_ should be the High King of Narnia instead of you or your sister?"

"It isn't kingship, though that would be the greatest of all honors and the highest of all gifts, that I want," said Peter. "It is peace, understanding, and prosperity, and I am willing to do whatever it takes to see that Narnia receives them."

"Well spoken, Peter!" Aslan said, and His rich voice rang through the cavern. "Then take up your sword and fulfill the duties you have named. And though you are well endowed with humility and selflessness, do not concern yourself with Caspian's welfare. Whatever is _rightfully _his shall come to him in time, for I know him and I know that he is good and honorable.

"King Peter is born again!" Aslan declared, and a sharp ringing of magic filled the air. An instant later, Peter found himself attired in shining, majestic armor and a bright red tunic with a golden lion embroidered on the front.

"Kneel," spoke the Queen for the first time, and Peter was surprised at how deep and rich her voice was. He got to his knees and removed his helm, bowing his head.

"Do you swear your loyalty to Narnia, to fight for Narnia in whatever way might be asked of you, and to uphold virtue and goodness for always?"

"I swear," he said, and the Queen touched his shoulders with the flat of the sword.

"Rise, Sir Peter Pevensie," she called triumphantly, and he rose with a new strength in his eyes. With both hands, he took the sword from her and sheathed it, letting it hang comfortingly from his sword belt.

With a more tender smile on her rosy lips, she took his face in her hands and leaned to kiss his brow.

A flood of images invaded his mind at her touch, and he gasped as he saw _her_ no longer standing before him in white but somewhere else. Fleeting pictures danced before his eyes, times and events from long ago and far away.

_There she was, a young girl dressed awkwardly in strange clothing stumbling into a snowy wonderland. _

_A second later, and she was a teenager, riding a horse with a bow and quiver strapped proudly on her back. _

_She was a queen, crowned in golden flowers._

Peter almost staggered as he saw the lives of all the children after her, the princesses and princes who bore her noble blood, all of them beautiful and brave. He saw her as she appeared to him in his dreams, pale hands clutched around an even paler ivory cup, full of red flames. He saw the fall of Queen Susan, her heir and wife of King Peter the Tenth, and the child who lived to become the forefather of his family.

In that one moment that she kissed him, he saw his mother with her black hair and rosy lips, his sister Susan, and all the lives that came before them. He felt her anger, her sorrow, and her unrelenting passion, but most of all, he felt her love and her hope for a new Narnia.

"Do you know who I am?" Queen Susan whispered to him.

"Yes, of course," he breathed, feeling his heart bursting with joy and love. "_A man is still his mother's son_."

……………………………………………….

……………………………………………….

Caspian burst into the cave, panting, bedraggled, and cold. He heard voices, beautiful voices, from deeper in and he ran towards them.

"Peter!" he called, even though his voice was hoarse. "Peter! _Peter!_ Pete-!"

Caspian stopped abruptly when he came upon the three people, just in time to see the Lion and the beautiful Queen before the two of them disappeared. The light that lingered in the cavern dimmed until there was only Peter standing there, fully accoutered in armor with a sword at his side.

Peter turned and Caspian almost gasped when he saw how changed his husband was. The armor glittered even in the dark, and seemed to fit Peter as if it had been made just for him.

But what surprised Caspian the most was the look in his eyes, as if he had seen and spoken to and touched _something_ that was heavenly and other-worldly and was only now awakening from that dream. If Caspian had not just _seen _the Lion (that he knew must have been Aslan) he would have thought Peter bewitched.

"P-Peter?" he called out, wavering, unsure. Peter came towards him, strong and confident, and Caspian did not know what to think.

"Come on," Peter said softly, taking Caspian's arm and leading him out of the cave. "We have to go back."

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It was a cold, gray dawn and Caspian was feeling achy and rather empty. It was him, this time, who watched Peter getting dressed and armored to get ready to leave.

_I hate that you're going, that you're heading into danger. I hate that you're leaving me, even if it's just for now, and oh how I hate that you've somehow moved away from me_,he wanted to say. But he kept these negative thoughts to himself as he stood and helped Peter to tie and buckle, smoothing his hands over his husband's skin every now and then. As it often is, when one person had seen something magical that someone else hasn't, Peter could not find the words to reconcile his vision with Caspian and Caspian had no words to ask him about it.

When Peter went out to mount his horse, the Narnians gathered around to stare in silent awe. Though Peter had kept mostly silent about last night's adventures, the people of the camp had made conjectures. They had seen his armor, and the dazzled look in his face, and they could feel that he had been touched by magic.

Rynelf was nearby, already armed and mounted. Caspian would trust no other man to go with Peter. Wind-Mane, the female centaur was to go with them as well, and she stamped the ground impatiently, armored plates clanking along her flanks.

"Be careful," were Susan's only words to Peter as she clasped his hands in hers.

Caspian himself didn't know what to say, afraid his voice would crack. But Peter seemed to understand the love and fear in Caspian's eyes, and merely touched Caspian's cheek lovingly, trying to express all he could with one lingering look.

"Goodbye, for now," he whispered.

Caspian felt his heart aching as he watched Peter ride off, swallowed up by the horizon and the rose-colored sunrise, the nickering of Peter's horse the last thing to fade away.

Not long after Peter left, a message came from Miraz, brought by a nervous-looking young Telmarine soldier. The king had accepted Caspian's challenge, and the fight would be to the death.

As Susan read over the message, Caspian slowly sank onto a nearby tree stump for support. He would go fight. He _had _to.

As Caspian shook his head, trying to deal with this turn of events, his eyes fell on a golden chrysanthemum, growing happily nearby. _How strange_, he thought. _They usually bloom in autumn_.

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Notes: Argh, once AGAIN, sorry this took so long! But now that it's summer, I'll hopefully have more time to update. Thanks so much to everyone who's reading! Please please feedback and lemme know what you think!! ^_^


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 30:

"Is there no physician here?" Peter said quietly to Drinian, face pale and drawn, aghast at the conditions of those around him.

They were mostly aging men, wounded and wretched-looking. Almost all of them had been slaves, and looked very much as such. Everywhere he looked, he saw blood-matted hair and skin mottled with disease. Wounds and sores lingered on arms and legs, bandaged crudely. The groaning and creaking of weary limbs filled the air of Drinian's encampment.

There were only a few young and healthy; the rest were all destitute-looking old men who had struggled all the way from being the king's slaves, groaning and sweating through their labors, to a brief fiery rebellion in which they raised bloody hatchets and cried out for the first time in years, to now: huddling together in gray-haired masses around dying campfires, free but doomed, and it seemed they were clinging onto life just as withering ivy clings to a wall.

With a cursory glance around, Peter could tell there were no supply wagons, or very many horses or other animals. The Telmarine soldiers stood quietly by in their own section of the camp, apart from the Narnians as if an invisible barrier stood between them. Among them was a dark-haired lady, who was looking at him intently with curious eyes.

"Just the one," replied Drinian, pointing. There was a tired old man in a gray cloak sitting over someone and gently mopping his brow. It took him a minute before Peter recognized Dr. Cornelius. Caspian's old tutor had changed drastically. Though Cornelius had hardly looked healthy looked in Miraz's dungeons, he looked even worse now. The good doctor had grown much thinner and his hair had grayed considerably. He looked up from his patient for a minute and his tired eyes caught Peter's but Cornelius looked down again, not recognizing him.

Drinian himself had not known him when Peter, Wind-Mane, and Rynelf came to meet them that day. It had been almost comical, they way the Telmarine's eyes opened in shock when he realized that the richly-accoutered knight was the pale, wraith-like creature who had been Miraz's slave. He hadn't stopped staring at Peter since.

"Do the rest of your troops lodge somewhere else?" Peter asked, tearing his eyes away from his old friend.

"Rest?" replied Drinian with a short laugh. "No, these _are_ mytroops."

"What? But… there are so few!"

"These are all the men left," said Drinian. He was staring at Peter again, that intense, scrutinizing stare. "There weren't that many loyal enough to me to begin with, that would commit treason. Those that went with me became fugitives. When I tried to return to my own home, so I could call on my friends for aid, it turned out that whatever allies I once had heard of my betrayal and abandoned me to my cause. My properties had already been seized, and the Telmarine civilians I had once treated so well turned against me. Only my wife and the most loyal of my household would come with me. No, Peter, there are no more soldiers. We are all that's left."

Peter's throat went dry. He glanced around the camp again, saw some of the few children pointing at the dignified-looking centaur and whispering amongst themselves, looking very much as if they'd like to touch her tail and flanks. The Telmarines were also whispering, but suspiciously.

He sighed heavily. This wasn't what they had expected, what they had hoped for. Instead of an army that could very well help the Narnians to victory, there were only a small group of soldiers in a segregated camp, under a leader that was cut off from resources.

"Lord Drinian, while these are bleak circumstances, I'm sure that-"

Before he could finish, a short, dark-haired figure darted out from somewhere behind Drinian and ran right into Peter, throwing skinny arms around his middle and crying out, "Peter! Peter!"

"Oh!" Peter gasped in surprised, staggering slightly under the onslaught. "Gilbert?" he cried in amazement, pulling back and examining the freckled face now alight with joy.

"Oh, I knew I'd see you again! I _knew _it! Some of the others didn't believe you'd survived, but _I _knew…!" the boy babbled and Peter felt his heart swell with fondness and nostalgia.

Stooping down, Peter embraced Gilbert tightly, not caring if it seemed informal in front of Drinian's troops.

"I've missed you!" Peter said, stopping Gilbert's excited speech. "Listen, I'll speak to you later, alright?" Giving him a squeeze, Peter watched Gilbert run off, beaming.

He straightened up to find Drinian staring at him again.

"Um… as I was saying," Peter continued rather awkwardly, trying not to cringe when he noticed how close Drinian was standing, eyes glued to him, "Prince Caspian's numbers are few, but yours are even fewer. I know you and your people have come here at great cost…"

He breathed a sigh of frustration. Drinian's eyes were boring holes into him with a mixture of confusion, dismay, and was that disgust? His frustration turned to anger when he realized that Drinian was not so much staring at _him _as at his face. Specifically, his left cheek and the scar that ran across it.

"Lord Drinian, I would ask that you stop looking at me like that," Peter snapped. "You are being very rude."

"I-I beg your pardon," came the stammered reply. "I was just… well."

"The brand?" Peter inquired, arms crossing reflexively while his lip twitched with annoyance.

"Yes. I do ask forgiveness if I have offended you, but it's just… I cannot help but be appalled at such a cruelty."

"There is no point in being appalled," Peter replied curtly. "After all, the king's cruelty is hardly a surprise to you."

"Well, yes, but… Such treatment is horrifying indeed."

"Well, I'm sure I'm not the first one," said Peter. "The king has never had a shortage of enemies."

"It is true that he has enemies, but you _are _the first one he has punished so cruelly."

"What do you mean? The brand is hardly a new invention. I might not be Telmarine but I know all enemies of the crown are given this mark."

"Yes, but even in the barbaric days of old, prisoners were branded on the left shoulder," Drinian said slowly.

"_What?_" Peter demanded, paling.

"Face branding was never a tradition. I have never seen or heard of it. I-I'm sorry," Drinian added awkwardly, ducking his head.

Peter felt as if he had been drenched in ice-water. With a trembling hand, he brought his fingers to the accursed scar and in that moment, he felt the fiery tendrils of pain again and all the hurt and the anguish he had felt the very moment they pressed that ragged metal to his face came back in a sickening rush.

_Why?_

Muttering an apology to Drinian, he quickly turned and walked away. Rynelf appeared next to him, concerned, and Peter had to brace himself on the other man, hand pressed to his own mouth to stop any undignified noises of emotion.

"Are you alright? Peter?" Rynelf asked anxiously, arm wrapping tightly around him.

"I'm fine!" Peter gasped, forcing back the sickness that had risen to his throat. He turned around and looked at Drinian, who was standing by, looking slightly guilty. "I'm alright. It's… it's nothing."

Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and gently pushed Rynelf away. "I'm fine," he repeated. Trying to will his tense muscles to relax, Peter walked back to talk with Drinian. After all, when there was much work to be done, on cannot linger on personal sorrows.

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Caspian's breath came out in white puffs, mingling with the cold air before dissipating. The sharp sound of the whetstone against his blade was rhythmic as he pulled it back and forth. His face was drawn into a frown as he sat by the campfire. He would meet with the king in two days for their duel and to his shame, Caspian felt sick to his stomach.

Nearby, Susan was practicing with her lighter, thinner sword, slashing and thrusting it through the air. Her brow was wrinkled with concentration as she fought with fervor, as if she were the one to fight Miraz. He listened to her feet scuffing the ground as she lunged for an invisible opponent, her unbound hair whipping against her face.

Caspian knew she was doing it more out of restlessness than any real desire to train. Through all their time together, he had grown used to her moods and habits. He raised his head to look at her, but quickly looked down again when he felt a sad pang. For some reason, she seemed fey with her dark hair and pale face.

A bit ways off, Lucy was dozing against Edmund's shoulder, hands buried in her brother's cloak for warmth. Edmund himself was watching Susan's deadly dance with rapt attention, dark eyes trained on her every move and mouth slightly open in silent admiration.

A while later, Susan stopped and plopped down next to Caspian, panting and wiping her brow. With a sigh, she sheathed her sword and laid it aside.

"Have you found a third marshal for the lists?" Caspian asked, pausing in his task and turning to look at her.

"The good Bear volunteered," said Susan. "I wouldn't have him there, but he invoked the old tradition, that such a privilege has always belonged to his family." She carelessly loosened her collar, wiping at the moisture there with the back of her hand. She laughed lightly, sounding as if she forced it. "He's quite dull, but he's incredibly loyal and he can be attentive when he tries. I suppose Glenstorm and I can look solemn enough to balance things out. It'll be alright, as long as he doesn't suck his paws."

Caspian looked away for a moment, shaking his head and smiling. Lucy sighed in her sleep and shifted against Edmund, who gently lowered her to lie in his lap.

"I'm glad you'll be there, right behind me," Caspian said quietly. "I trust you, you know. I would trust you with my life."

She stilled for a moment and looked at him, searching his face with her eyes. Slowly, she reached for his hand and pressed it with hers.

"I'm glad it's you and not me," she said, just as quietly. "You're much stronger than I am, when it comes to some things." Her bosom rose and fell with a fortifying breath, and Caspian could tell it was difficult for her to say. "I was angry before, even jealous, that _you_ would challenge Miraz, and not me. But I've thought about it and I know that even if I were to fight him, I wouldn't be able to bear the thought that he murdered my parents and hurt my brother, that he destroyed so much of Narnia. The hatred would overcome me, and I'd be fighting him for all the wrong reasons. It shouldn't be about revenge, and you'd be able to put that aside better than me."

He didn't reply, just stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. After a moment's pause, she pulled away. Taking up her sword, she left the campfire. Edmund followed soon after, rousing Lucy in the process and taking her with him.

Caspian took up the whetstone again and the silence was soon broken with the steady, grinding strokes. Susan's words ran over in his mind, and it ached that, for days now, it had been only revenge that was on his mind, revenge for the horrors Peter had endured.

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The entire afternoon, Peter went around taking care of the neglected injured. Drinian watched the boy, shining armor discarded and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, boiling bandages and feeding water to the sick, aiding Doctor Cornelius in every small task.

With Rynelf's help, Peter had gently bullied some of the Telmarines into helping as well. While before, there had been a painfully obvious divide between the two ends of the camp, now the Telmarines freely touched and spoke with the Narnians. Gilbert, the ragged-looking Narnian child hung around Peter all day like an excited puppy, begging him for stories of his escape and bursting with energy that simply wasn't there before. In fact, everyone seemed to be revitalized by the arrival of the young Narnian knight, and Drinian could not help but chafe at the knowledge that Peter was taking far better care of his own people.

Yet, even with face smudged with soot, hands dirty from working, and wearing a peasant's clothes, Peter had a look of nobility on his face, Drinian marveled.

Later in the evening, Peter spoke with Drinian about their reinforcements. The lamp placed on a nearby rock was quickly running out of oil, but illuminated the damp on Peter's cheeks.

"How long can we stretch the water and supplies?" Peter asked, map spread out on his knees. Cornelius stood nearby, ready to offer his advice, though Drinian had refused his counsel earlier, saying that an old scholar had no place among soldiers.

"We are at our limits, I'm afraid," replied Drinian, "but we can last a little longer."

"And our weapons?"

"Enough for my men."

"But not enough for everyone."

"Peter, the Narnians here aren't soldiers. They won't be able to fight, even if we had enough swords."

"They fought well enough the night they escaped," Peter reminded him. "We have to act, and quickly. We need more arms so that we can go to Caspian's aid."

"We neither have the resources nor the numbers to go into battle now. We lost enough men the last time we came to your aid. I say the best plan of action is to continue to build our defenses here."

"May I respectfully remind you, Lord Drinian, that every moment we delay is another moment Caspian's army will be closer to defeat. We have no stronghold here, no other allies, and hardly any weapons. If Caspian falls, we are doomed, for Miraz will come after us next."

"What would you have me do, then? Mobilize and march south to meet with Caspian's troops? We'll be of little help to them, that's for sure. The Narnians here can hardly fight if their lives depended on it, and I don't trust Caspian's people to fight alongside mine."

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Not for the first time, he found himself feeling as if he failed, somehow. It had been his idea to ally with Drinian, but the situation seemed even more hopeless than before. Idly, he touched the golden ring on his finger and thought of Caspian. What was he to do?

"If I may?" someone spoke up. Peter looked up to see the dark-haired woman he noticed before, who he now knew was Drinian's wife, come over to her husband.

"What is it?" asked Drinian, a hint of impatience in his voice.

"If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion?" she spoke quietly, but her eager face showed no sign of begging for permission.

"Please speak," said Peter, standing to offer her his seat, but she remained standing. "What is your suggestion?"

"That my husband takes back what is his," she said.

"Ismenia, what are you saying?" cried Drinian. "Our lands have been seized! Our house is now occupied by Miraz's men, our own townspeople turned against us!"

"I know all this, dear husband. I was there when they stormed the house and took me hostage," she replied icily, "an imprisonment you so graciously freed me from. But your lands, while safe enough under your sovereignty, are not quite so secure under the new owners."

"You know who controls them then?" asked Drinian, sitting up straighter.

"Once the properties were seized, the king gifted them to Lord Arlian's family as recompense for his rather unfortunate _accidental_ death. As Arlian had no heirs, the boon was given to his brother, Lord Argoz. And because Lord Argoz was already in control of his own troops and his own land, whatever power he has is now spread thin."

"What are you saying?" Drinian repeated.

"I'm saying that Lord Argoz is a weak-willed and cowardly man," she said, looking pointedly at them. "He'll take slaves and sell them for profit, but won't keep any to work in his household or farms for fear of revolt. He'll pay tribute to Miraz and send the king letters of flattery, but never goes to court because he's afraid the king will find out about his illicit slave trade. And, he's currently residing in Drinian's old house, which is about a day's march from here."

Immediately, Peter and Drinian saw the truth in her dark eyes. "My lady, you are most clever," Peter said, smiling.

"I don't know," wondered Drinian, shaking his head. "Do you think it could work? We might not have enough men to defeat Argoz, should he summon his troops."

"Trust me, husband," said Ismenia, "his troops are nothing to boast about."

"At the moment, neither are ours," replied Drinian.

"Better swords do not make better soldiers," Peter declared, a fiery, determined look in his eyes.

It took a long time and they talked late into the night, but in the end, he, Drinian, Cornelius, and Ismenia had formulated a plan. If all went well, Drinian would be in control of his own lands as well as Argoz's by nightfall the next day.

Yet, some of the Narnians protested when they heard of the dangerous endeavor.

"We are not soldiers," one of them wheedled. "Haven't we sacrificed enough by following you the first time and destroying Miraz's war machines? So many of us died then. Why can't you spare us and let us stay here in peace?"

"Because this isn't peace," Peter had said angrily. "Narnia as we have known it is going to change forever, one way or the other. If Miraz wins, none of us will be spared, and Narnia will descend into tyranny and terror as it had 200 years ago, and it will be because _we _failed. But if we shall succeed, then we have a chance to see to it that a tyrant never rules here again."

There were no more arguments after that.

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The Telmarine town of Brenn had a few unexpected visitors that day. The exiled Lady Ismenia, with head held high despite the whispers from the townspeople, was escorted to the house of Lord Argoz by three cloaked strangers.

Under the cloaks were Peter, Drinian, and Rynelf. Peter had his hood down low over his face and kept his sword close to his side.

He had never been to Brenn before, but everywhere he looked, the dilapidation and the corruption sickened him. Things had gone horribly bad since Edmund had taken the same route through this town. While Lord Drinian had been a just ruler, Argoz was dishonest and self-serving, and signs of it showed everywhere.

. The quiet prosperity that Edmund had seen before now lay in shambles. The streets were filthy with garbage and stray animals snapping at each other. The stalls where well-dressed merchants sold chrysanthemums, dark cloth, wool, dried foods, and tankards of ale were now empty and broken-down.

A barefoot young Telmarine girl was selling thread and needles on the street corner, ignored by everyone. Two wild, snarling dogs were fighting over a bone near the filth-clotted gutters.

The quiet little schoolhouse with the dark shutters now had broken hinges and cracked windows, and more children were seen out in the street than in the classroom.

From the nearby ale house, Peter could hear the loud noises of drunken soldiers and his stomach twisted at the unpleasant memories. Leaning against the walls of dark buildings were more Telmarine soldiers, Argoz's men that had traveled with him to Brenn. They laughed and spat and drank from flasks, weapons and armor in poor shape. Their swords were blunt, and their helms lay uncared for on the ground.

Peter didn't want to pass by these soldiers without doing something. He was afraid for the barefoot girl still selling her wares nearby, with the drunken men so close to her, but Rynelf pressed his arm and bade him walk on.

Peter wasn't the only one disturbed by these signs of deterioration. He could see Drinian's fist tighten under long the sleeves, and the angry tense line of his shoulders.

The walked to Drinian's former house, which was now guarded by twice as many soldiers than before. The head guard stopped them and lazily demanded to know their business. Peter noted that though the soldiers here showed similar un-care towards their uniforms and conduct, they were at least more alert and better armed than the soldiers they had passed in the town.

"My husband, Lord Drinian, is dead," Ismenia declared in a shuddering voice. Her eyes were lowered and her hands folded meekly in front of her. "I would beg an audience of Lord Argoz and ask for sanctuary."

"Dead, eh?" said the guard. "Well, good riddance I say. I'm sure his Lordship would want to know. Go on then." He waved carelessly at them, and the two guards slouching at the entrance condescended to open the doors for them.

"They never even bothered to ask who we were," hissed Drinian, as they walked through. "Undisciplined brutes!"

"It's better for us, if all of Argoz's men are so lazy," Peter whispered back, pulling Rhindon closer to his body.

All of them nearly gasped when they saw the interior of the house. Rare plants in porcelain vases decorated every corner and the furniture, expensive before, was even more lavishly upholstered. The tables were piled with expensive things, silver teapots, jewel-studded snuff boxes, crystal goblets, and richly dyed tapestries hung from the walls. Drinian certainly never indulged in so many riches, and not even some of Miraz's rooms were so furnished.

Ismenia's shoes clicked on the polished marble floor as she led them up a flight of stairs.

Unfortunately, the two guards at the entrance to Argoz's office were much more vigilant than those at the gate.

"Lord Argoz does not see anyone who doesn't send word first," said one, glaring at the company. "And who are these men? Why do they not remove their hoods?"

"They are my escort," she replied softly, shrinking back as if frightened. "A feeble-bodied woman such as myself cannot travel alone, good sir."

"I don't care how you've traveled, I demand that they remove their cloaks at once! You, madam, have no business here and neither do these strangers. Have them identify themselves or I shall have them arrested."

In one swift motion, Drinian threw back his hood. "Look upon my face, soldier," he said angrily. "You have no power to arrest me in my own home."

"Traitor!" gasped the guard and made for his sword hilt. His partner sprang up at once and tried to do the same, but Peter and Rynelf quickly moved to subdue him. Drinian drew back his arm and knocked down the first one with a well-aimed punch while Rynelf did the same to the other.

"Quickly!" panted Peter, and they went in, bolting the door after them.

Lord Argoz, a small, graying man sat in the middle of the room, hunched over his writing desk which was piled with papers and notebooks.

"I said that I'd not see anyone today, unless they have made a business appointment," Argoz called, not looking up from a table of figures.

"We have not come here to talk about your disgusting slave trade," said Drinian, striding up and putting both hands down on the edge of the desk. Argoz looked up and paled as he recognized the former owner of the house.

"Don't call for your guards if you know what's good for you," Peter warned, shrugging his cloak open and putting his hand on his sword hilt.

"What are you doing here?" stammered the man behind the desk. He stood up, licking his lips nervously. "This is most inappropriate. None of you should be here! I haven't let you in, have I?"

"Peace!" said Drinian sternly. "We have come to make you an offer and you will listen well, to your own advantage. Right now, my troops have made an alliance with the Narnian Resistance. Our combined forces have flanked north and surrounded this town. At our signal, they are ready to attack from all sides and drive you out."

"Most impossible, most impossible!" croaked Argoz, wringing his pasty hands. "You can't attack _me_! Why… you're the exiles, don't you know? The king said so. I have men posted all over the town. They'll protect me, yes they will."

"We've seen your men," Peter spoke up. "They're drunken louts, that much is obvious."

"We've also had a good look at this town," growled Drinian. "You have a lot of nerve to call yourself governor of these people. Citizens are starving in the streets while your soldiers, if they can be called that, drink and cavort and make the alehouses their homes! ("Quite untrue, quite untrue," muttered Argoz nervously.) How easy do you think it will be, for us to call the townspeople to revolt? They rebelled against me, easily enough, and their lives were much better when I governed."

"Oh my," whined Argoz, backing up so that his back hit the wall behind him. "What do you want from me? I make money from the slave trade, sure enough, though that's hardly enough to keep me clothed and fed. Do you want money?"

Rynelf made sound that was half amusement and half disgust, remembering all the expensive furnishings they had seen on the way in.

"That would be nice," said Peter cheerily, "but that's not all we want. We want you to join with us against Miraz. Instead of having your troops lounging in this town and drinking away all the townspeople's money while your slave trade blocks all other forms of commerce, we want your men to fight for us."

"Quite impossible!" Argoz exclaimed. "I should have nothing to gain by such an arrangement."

"On the contrary," said Ismenia, coming forward and taking up the papers on his desk with an elegant sweep of her hand. "We all know your private operation here is illegal. Your residence in this town ensures good business, with how close it is to trade routes. Yet, despite your profits, the only ones benefiting from the slave trade are yourself and your men. Since your business is illicit, you don't pay taxes out of your earnings. You know that is a capital offence, sir."

"Why… I…" Argoz was sweating profusely now. "But no one knows, do they? No one knows!"

"The king will find out soon enough," said Peter. "Once this war is over, he plans to kill every remaining Narnian, down to the last child. Not only will your slave smuggling be completely destroyed, but also discovered. The king will not hesitate to execute you for that. However, join with us, help us win this war, and Prince Caspian will be far more lenient."

"I… I…" stammered Argoz, as the four strangers surrounded him. He seemed at a perfect loss as to what to do.

Then, faster than any of them expected he was capable of, the Telmarine leapt to the right and pulled a silk sash that was hanging from the wall, one that was thought to have been purely decorative.

In an instant, loud alarm bells rang out all through the house. Shouts and running footsteps could be heard as Argoz's guards heard the distress call and rushed to his rescue.

"The door!" cried Peter, and Rynelf and Drinian rushed to barricade the door of the office.

"It's too late!" Argoz laughed shrilly. "You're all doomed now and you can't call your men before they break that door down, that's for sure."

Ismenia cried out when the door was smashed from the outside with splintering force. It held, but could not last long.

"Hand over those papers, Dear," simpered Argoz, and reached for Ismenia, who shoved him away and spat out a rather unladylike curse.

"We have to escape!" shouted Drinian, over the din of the clamoring guards outside. "Out the window, before it's too late. We are outnumbered!"

"No!" Peter declared. "Hold them off!"

With furious eyes, he turned on Argoz, whose grin slowly disappeared.

In a swift motion, the Narnian drew Rhindon from its sheath, the motion making his cloak flare, and pointed the naked blade right at the Telmarine's head. Argoz quailed under his the murderous look in Peter's eyes and made a strangled gasping noise, paling considerably.

"Since you have refused to join us willingly, I will have to use force," said Peter.

"N-now look h-here, young lad-" Argoz stammered.

"You will address me as knight!" Peter roared, advancing until he had the other man against the wall, the point of the sword under his wrinkled chin.

"Y-yes, Sir!" Argoz squeaked, eyes bulging and clearly terrified out of his mind.

"I will repeat the offer," said Peter in a deathly calm voice, "and this time, your life is at stake. Call off your men. Hand over the command of Brenn and your troops to Lord Drinian and myself or I swear by Aslan I will end your life, as a gift to the people who have suffered under your corrupt governing."

"W-what gives you the right?" gasped Argoz. "How can you say such things?"

"_Kneel_!" Peter commanded, and Argoz dropped to his knees.

"Lord Argoz is a cowardly man, and easily awed," Ismenia had told Peter the night before, and now Peter was exploiting this to the fullest extent.

"I am the scion of King Peter the Magnificent, the first king of Narnia by that name," he declared, and there was such a kingly ring to his voice that everyone in the room was awed. "You, Argoz, have made your profit by selling the flesh of others, the most deplorable trade to exist in this land. The people you were charged to govern suffer poverty and sickness while you sit behind your fancy desk and reap the rewards. Shameful man!"

Argoz whimpered and covered his face with his hands.

From across the room, Drinian groaned under the pressure of the soldiers outside, trying to push their way in.

"I give you one last chance," Peter said, lifting his sword away just an inch. "Obey me and I will forgive your transgressions. _Call off your guards_."

…………………………………..

………………………………….

Caspian's heart thudded in his chest as he waited at the edge of the lists. Behind him, against the edge of the woods, stood the Lion's Army. The stamping of centaurs' hooves could be heard.

Miraz, fully armored, was sitting at the opposite side, flanked by Sopespian and Glozelle, and an unknown Telmarine baron. Behind them, stood the Telmarine army. Caspian couldn't hear what Miraz was saying to Glozelle, but they seemed to be talking intently. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

"Is everything alright?" asked Susan, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Caspian nodded in response.

"Oh look," he said lightly with a smile, gesturing to his left, "Bulgy Bear's still sucking his paws, after all that lecturing Trumpkin gave him."

Susan looked at the roly-poly Beast sucking excitedly on his paw and laughed, though not so loudly as to offend him.

"Good luck," she said softly, gazing into his eyes for a moment before handing him his helm and helping him put it on, visor up.

After a moment more of preparation, both Caspian and Miraz made their way into the lists and walked over to meet in the middle.

"King Miraz," Caspian greeted respectfully.

"Caspian," Miraz replied, a slight sneer on his face. The king's armor was polished and bulky, and made him seem much bigger than he actually was.

"Do you agree to honor the terms of the duel?" asked Caspian, hoping his voice didn't quake.

"Of course," came the smug reply. "But you know it's not too late to surrender, my nephew."

"I won't surrender what is rightfully mine," Caspian declared, before walking back a few paces and lowering his visor. Miraz did the same, signaling the start of the duel.

At once, their swords were out and they rushed towards each other, letting their blades clash with a terrific ring. Both armies erupted into deafening cheers as the two opponents broke apart and circled each other.

Miraz was the first to advance and their swords and shields clashed again. A barrage of blows were exchanged, deadly and accurate. Each blow against his shield was strong enough to make Caspian's teeth rattle and he found himself being pushed back. With his superior weight and height, Miraz gained the upper hand.

Miraz's blade sliced through the air faster than Caspian had time to bring his shield up and the prince had to stumble backwards to avoid the blow. Still the tip of the king's sword nicked his visor and knocked him slightly off balance. Miraz followed that up with a tremendous blow of his shield and knocked the wind out of Caspian, who fell to one knee.

Caspian gasped for breath as the triumphant roars from the Telmarine army drowned out his own cry of pain. He could feel sweat dripping down his face.

"Get up!" he heard Susan call anxiously and he had to quickly roll out of the way as Miraz tried to take his head off with a downward stroke.

With a cry, Caspian lunged forward again, aiming for Miraz's midsection. The king parried the blow and used the backwards momentum to strike Caspian in the face with the hilt of his sword.

The blow was so hard it knocked Caspian's helmet clean off and left a bloody bruise on the prince's cheek. But Caspian recovered faster than Miraz expected. While the king was getting his balance back from such a swing, Caspian lunged forward again with deadly aim.

Miraz backed up, but not fast enough and roared in fury when Caspian's sword sliced his unprotected underarm. Immediately, the king slammed his shield into Caspian with all his strength, so hard that he knocked the prince's shield away when Caspian tried to bring it up.

Caspian cried out in frustration when the blow once again knocked him to his knees. This time, however, he did not roll away when Miraz brought his sword down, but simply shifted and let the Dwarf-made shoulder armor take the brunt of the attack. When the blow glanced off, Caspian grabbed on to Miraz's gauntleted forearm, shoved his shoulder upwards into the king's torso, and _threw_ Miraz to the ground as he stood.

As the king fell tumbling to the ground, the Narnians sounded their approval with cheers and stamping feet.

Caspian panted and regained his footing, just as Miraz regained his. He saw to his satisfaction that the king was panting just as hard, probably in pain as well as effort. A think trickle of blood ran down Miraz's arm and dropped to the ground.

"Respite!" called the king, and Caspian was all too ready to agree. With a shaky nod, he walked back to his side of the lists while Miraz retreated.

Caspian collapsed into the seat they had brought, red faced and sweating.

"What do you think of him?" Susan asked worriedly, mopping his face with her handkerchief while Glenstorm handed him a water skin.

"He's stronger than I expected," Caspian panted, taking a swallow and relishing the water running down his throat.

"Just don't let him intimidate you," said Susan, glaring over to the other side of the field.

Sopespian and Glozelle had unbuckled some of the king's armor and bandaged the arm best they could. The king had taken his helmet off, choosing not to wear it as the sweat streamed into his eyes. It was a particularly sunny day, and the heat was bothering him.

It became time to start again and Caspian reentered the lists. All too soon, Miraz charged at him with renewed fervor, sword and shield ready. But this time, the prince calculated his moves more carefully and kept his distance.

Using his agility, Caspian dodged most of Miraz's attacks so that half of them never landed and those that did glanced harmlessly off the prince's shield or armor. Over the catcalls of the Telmarine army, Caspian could hear the king's frustrated groans. Miraz's face was reddening and the prince could tell he was getting short of breath.

A lucky stroke brought the king's blade crashing into Caspian's shield and the prince stumbled. The king followed up with a powerful overhead strike but Caspian was prepared this time, having already learned some of the king's moves.

Shield raised high, Caspian ducked low and at the same time, blocked the blow while slicing across one of Miraz's legs. The king screamed in anger and pain, falling back a few steps.

From across the field, General Glozelle swallowed hard as Miraz turned to glare at him. He could tell the king was wounded in the way he was favoring one leg, and how the young prince was standing back with a look of triumph.

Before the fight had begun, Miraz had charged Glozelle with taking matters into his own hands should the general deem that the king was in any danger. The hawk-shaped crossbow felt heavy as the general raised it in shaking hands.

There he was, the king he had sworn to protect with his life.

_Thump thump_ went the beat of their feet against the ground, Caspian and Miraz, or was it his own heart?

Sweat gathered on Glozelle's forehead as he watched Caspian rush forward and disarm the king with two strong swipes of his sword. The king, now only armed with a shield staggered backwards desperately while warding off Caspian's attacks. Miraz uttered a low, angry groan and turned his blazing dark eyes to Glozelle.

With pain in his heart, Glozelle remembered the last charge given to him by Caspian the ninth, to serve his brother as well as Glozelle had served him.

Yet, he surely could not murder his best friend's son!

But when Miraz, forced to his knees under the relentless fury of Prince Caspian, turned his eyes to Glozelle one last time, full of despair, the general raised his crossbow.

Deliberately, he misfired and the arrow landed harmlessly at Caspian's feet. Still, the momentary distraction was enough.

In the time it took Caspian to flinch back at the deadly arrow, Miraz leapt to his feet and slammed the rim of his shield into Caspian's left shoulder. The prince screamed as he felt his shoulder joint twist back in agony, his shield clattering to the ground.

Without giving Caspian time to recover, Miraz slammed the shield into the side of Caspian's head and the prince fell to the ground, dazed and bleeding.

Leg wound gone numb with adrenaline, the king didn't bother to pick up his sword or his fallen shield as he descended on his enemy. As Caspian struggled to sit up, Miraz grabbed the prince's sword arm from behind and wrenched it back painfully, eliciting another hoarse scream.

As Caspian's sword fell from spasming fingers, Miraz pulled a hidden dagger from his boot and pressed it to the boy's throat.

When Caspian struggled, Miraz yanked the trapped arm viciously upwards, dragging the prince onto his knees.

"Ahh!" Caspian cried and choked on his own breath. Desperately he floundered, but that only served to drive the knife deeper into his neck. He could feel blood trickling down into his hauberk and fought to keep from panicking.

"I've _always _hated you!" Miraz snarled. The poison in the king's voice shook him to the core. "Ever since you were born, you denied me my kingship. How I loathed you, despised you!"

Caspian gasped for air, the pain in his arm and throat so great he could hardly breathe. He tried turning his head so the blade wouldn't be directly over his jugular but Miraz's grip was relentless.

Through his hazy vision, Caspian could see Susan with her bow in hand, arrow drawn. Her face was pained as she aimed the arrow at Miraz.

"No!" Caspian choked out, for fear that the Telmarine army would attack should she kill the king. "No, Susan…!"

He tried to hit at the king with his left arm, but Miraz drove a knee into the small of Caspian's back.

"I'll have my revenge on you," hissed the king, pressing the dagger so close that Caspian coughed in distress. "I _have _revenged myself on you." With a wrench, the king pulled him closer so he spoke right into the prince's ear. "I've had _him_. Your dear Peter, your one true love. How I made him suffer for loving you, you'll never know. Shall I tell you how helplessly he cried out for you as I took him, over and over? How he wept with despair when he thought you'd never come back for him?"

Tears gathered in the corners of Caspian's eyes and he gasped sharply. The image of Peter's gentle face came to him in his agony, his dear sweet love…

Miraz words stirred such a fury in him that Caspian had never known he could be so angry. With a yell, he slammed his head backwards into Miraz's face, grinning when he head a satisfying crack and the king's howl of pain.

When the pressure against his back eased, Caspian drew back his left elbow and slammed it backwards into Miraz's wounded shoulder. As the king recoiled, Caspian wrenched free and grabbed up his sword.

As the king stood up, growling in rage and swinging fists at him, Caspian ducked low and brought his sword up, right into the junction of the king's sword arm and shoulder.

It was all over in an instant.

Miraz shuddered and cried out, face paling as the muscle tore. Groaning, Caspian pushed the king off so the Miraz fell to his knees. Panting, furious, Caspian stood over his now-helpless enemy.

He was sure his face was bloodthirsty and that his eyes were crazed. He held the sword up just over Miraz's exposed neck, ready to strike the king dead.

The entire place had gone quiet. Narnian and Telmarine alike looked on him, breath held and waiting, but Caspian spared them no attention.

Miraz was looking at him, the fury gone from his dark eyes. The king watched him, expectantly, waiting.

_Oh, Peter, _he thought. _I'll kill him. Even though he's my uncle I'll kill him_

_._

"My nephew…"

_Yes, yes, your nephew. But you were so much more to me than an uncle. I thought of you as a father, Miraz, and you betrayed me with your hate._

"Do it," said Susan, and Caspian jumped when he realized she had come up right beside him without him noticing. Her fists were clenched and her face was twisted in rage.

"Do it!" she hissed, but his hand wavered. "He deserves it, Caspian, for what he did to my brother, for what he did to my parents. Kill him!"

Still, he wavered. Could he kill his own uncle, the last of his family? The only family he'll ever know?

With a sigh, Caspian lowered his sword.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head and stepping away. "I can't do it. He's… he's my father's brother." He pressed a hand to his neck to staunch the bleeding, noting the irony that in the end, that they were both doing it for the wrong reasons, him sparing the king and her wanting to kill him.

Susan glared fiercely at him, and for a moment, Caspian thought she would strike him. Instead, she reached for her own sword and drew it with a sickening grind of metal.

"If you won't do it then I will!" she shouted and raised her blade up high. Before he could stop her, before he could even _blink_, before she could deliver the killing blow to the cowering king, the whistling of an arrow hissed through the air.

Susan recoiled with a gasping cry as the bolt struck her breast. She staggered, her sword slipping from her fingers.

"Susan!" cried Caspian, his heart bursting, just as horrid cries of "Treachery! Treachery! Two of them conspired to murder the king! Foul! The Narnians have violated the agreement!" came from the Telmarine side.

Seeing Sopespian preparing to fire another arrow from his crossbow, Caspian grabbed Susan about the waist and shielded her, groaning when the arrow struck his armored back and glanced off.

"To arms, Telmar! To arms!" cried Sopespian, and Caspian heard them rushing to gather their weapons.

"Narnians, to arms!" he shouted hoarsely, shaking when he felt Susan's blood soaking onto himself. "Glenstorm, get her out of here," he said, hefting the moaning Susan in the centaur's arms as the rest of the Lion's Army rallied to him with cries of "For Narnia! For Aslan!"

He turned and saw Miraz retreating, supported by Glozelle. The Telmarines infantry had gotten into formation and were marching towards them with deadly speed.

"CHARGE!" roared Caspian, sword held high, and heard the shout reverberate throughout his troops.

The centaurs rushed forth with their lances and broadswords. From above came the cries of the attacking gryphons. The hissing of the archers' arrows sang.

Hefting his sword into both hands, Caspian ran into the heat of battle.

"For Aslan!" he cried and cut down the first Telmarine that got close enough.

Teeth gritted against his injuries Caspian fought more ferociously than ever before. He screamed, cried, ran, and shouted words he couldn't remember as he dove deeper and deeper into the fray, slashing and parrying for all he was worth. His heart was racing and his throat burned, but he couldn't stop the blood-crazed frenzy that raced through his body.

He didn't know how many men he felled, before a soothing, rich noise startled him out of his craze. Gasping, he turned towards the west, as did many others around him.

It was a the beautiful sounding of a horn, and Caspian saw a contingent of men in reassuring numbers, bearing Drinian's standard. At their vanguard, was Drinian, Rynelf, and Peter in his shining armor and blazing red tunic.

"Peter," Caspian spoke hoarsely, through chapped and bleeding lips, his voice filled with wonder.

………

……………………………………………

Peter took a deep breath and looked back to his troops. There were Drinian's loyal men, the Narnian slaves who were newly armed and uniformed, and the men they had taken with them from Brenn. They were all different people, pushed together at all at once, but none of them any less valiant.

Rynelf sounded the horn once more, and looked to Peter.

"Are you with me?" he asked, turning to Drinian and Rynelf.

"Yes," they both said, and Peter smiled.

"For Narnia, and for Aslan!" he shouted, raising his sword high and kicking his horse's sides. As one, Peter's troops charged into the throng.

"To the prince!" Peter shouted, as he dove into the fray. His stallion's hooves struck the enemy that rushed up to him and he slashed at them with his Rhindon, felling his foes one by one.

In the distance, Peter saw Caspian struggling under the attacks of two men. He dug his knees into the horse's side and rode forwards to aid his husband.

Unfortunately, one of the enemy charged him with a lance and pierced the horse's heart. Crying out, Peter fell as the horse shrieked and died, hooves flailing everywhere. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him for a minute.

Panting, Peter got to his feet just in time to dodge a slashing sword. With a grunt, he parried the blow and buried his blade into the enemy's stomach. He whirled around and lopped the head off of another Telmarine who was about to deal the killing blow to a faun.

"Caspian!" he called, looking around for the prince but not finding him amidst the chaos of death and screams.

Suddenly, someone struck him from behind, knocking him down. He looked up, shocked to see King Miraz towering over him, wielding a bloody sword in his left hand and a terrible look on his face.

Peter tried to get to his feet but Miraz lashed out and kicked Peter hard in the ribs. He cried out in pain and grabbed at the ground, trying to push himself up, only to realize that his sword lay fallen a few feet away.

He gasped and froze as he saw the king's sword, poised above his neck.

"No," he whispered, closing his eyes and knowing that he was done for. Yet, the blow never came. Slowly, Peter opened his eyes to see Miraz still standing over him but his sword was now lowered. There was a strange, pained, almost tender look in his eyes.

"Peter," he said softly, and reached out a hand as if to touch the fallen boy.

All of a sudden, the king screamed and wrenched in pain and Peter screamed too, in shock. Hot blood splashed onto Peter's pale face as the tip of a sword burst through the front of Miraz's armor.

With a cruel, twisted smile, Sopespian stepped out from behind the king and jerked the sword out.

"No!" Peter cried, as he watched Miraz fall to his knees, then crash sideways to the ground. In an instant, Sopespian had turned and gone, melting back into the shadows of the bodies around him.

Grabbing up his sword, Peter sheathed it and rushed over to Miraz. Frantically, though he could hardly think of a reason why at the moment, he checked the injury and tried to revive the king. Miraz still breathed, but to Peter's dismay, the wound was mortal.

Wiping his face of sweat – or were they tears? – Peter took Miraz's body in his arms and tried to drag him away. As battle raged all around him, Peter clung to the king, not even noticing when shouts of a Telmarine retreat rang through the battlefield.

…………………………………………….

……………………………………………..

"How is she?" Peter asked Dr. Cornelius anxiously, barely able to stand still. Caspian, in clean and mended clothes, put a comforting arm around him and held him close.

"She'll be alright," said the doctor, gently putting a cold compress to Susan's forehead. She was lying in her cot and Peter was frightened at how still and pale she was. "It was just a flesh wound and it shouldn't fester. She just needs to stay off her feet for a few days."

"A-and Miraz?" Caspian asked softly.

Cornelius sighed deeply before answering. "He's still alive, but there is nothing more I can do for him. The wound was too deep and too severe. His organs are damaged and I don't think he will survive for another day."

Peter shuddered a bit and leaned into his husband's embrace.

"Thank you, doctor," said Caspian with a tired smile. With a nod of gratitude, Peter and Caspian left the tent.

Once outside, Caspian breathed in the cold air and gathered Peter close. The camp was bustling all around them, seeing to supplies and integrating the new members of the prince's army. He knew there were duties he needed to tend to, but decided they could wait.

"I'm so glad you're safe," Peter murmured against his lips.

Caspian smiled sadly and for a moment, was content to hold Peter and rest.

"I fought Miraz," he said. He watched Peter's concerned eyes and gently cupped his husband's face. "I couldn't kill him."

"Oh, Caspian," Peter sighed and wrapped arms around Caspian's shoulders, laying his head against his neck. He felt the prince shiver and utter a rather strangled noise.

"He's my uncle, and I couldn't kill him, after all he's done. And now that I know he's dying, I can't bring myself to go see him."

"Caspian," Peter soothed gently, "it's going to be alright."

The prince laughed bitterly, sounding like he was crying. He buried his face in Peter's blond hair, reveling in the scent and softness.

"I don't know what to do with him. Should we keep him as a hostage and use him to negotiate a surrender from Sopespian? Or would that just make them come at us harder than ever?"

"I doubt that," said Peter softly. "Sopespian was the one who attacked him."

"What a mess," Caspian sighed, pulling back with a sniffle. "Look, I have to go and speak with Lord Drinian. We can talk about it later, alright? And, um… I'll speak to Miraz myself later, if he's awake but I don't think you should see him."

Peter nodded quickly at Caspian's request, more to dismiss him than anything else, and kissed his husband's lips one more time before Caspian pulled away and left.

While Caspian was away, Peter busied himself with aiding the newcomers to adjust to the camp. Most of Caspian's people were suspicious of the Telmarines and even the Narnians, but Peter was a good mediator and soon, while there might not have been amity between the two peoples, there was at least no open animosity.

Still, as the day wore on and night fell, with frequent visits to check on Susan, Peter felt more and more drawn to the secluded little tent where Miraz was being held captive. There was an ache in his heart, a desire to see and speak with the man who had been his tormentor, enemy, and lover for so long.

Despite Caspian's warning and his own reservations, Peter eventually found himself in front of the tent where Miraz was. There were two stern-looking guards posted outside, but they let Peter pass with no complaint.

The inside was bare and dark, but much nicer than any prison Peter had ever seen. Miraz lay on a narrow cot, face red with fever. A blanket covered the king up to his waist while his upper body was bound with bandages.

Peter saw that the king's rings were missing from his limp hands, and thought that his fingers looked naked without them. Peter had never seen Miraz so helpless before, and it unsettled him somewhat.

"It's you. You've come," the king said hoarsely from his bed, lips twisting into a pained smile.

"Yes," Peter replied softly and took a seat at the king's side, unable to take his eyes off of Miraz. He was silent for awhile, before speaking again. "I haven't come to give you hope, or to forgive you. I… I'm not sure why I'm here at all, actually."

Miraz merely sighed and looked away for a moment. Peter couldn't tell how much pain the king was in, or whether Miraz was so far gone it didn't matter.

"They say I'll die within a day. I'm surprised I haven't been killed already."

"It's because Caspian wants information," Peter said. "He didn't say anything, but I know. I suppose he also wants reconciliation from you for… well, everything."

"And you, Peter?" Miraz questioned gently, looking at Peter with eyes slightly clouded with pain. "What about what you want?"

Peter didn't reply for a moment, his chest feeling oddly heavy. He forced himself to look away for a moment, because he saw the love shining in the king's eyes.

Slowly, as if giving Peter a change to pull away if he wished, Miraz raised a hand and reached for the boy's face. Gently, he touched Peter's cheek with his fingers and Peter did not pull away. The room was silent but for the king's labored breathing.

Peter's eyes fluttered closed and without quite realizing it, he turned his cheek into Miraz's touch, sighing with the soft pressure. Those same fingers that had acted out a multitude of tortures and violence had never been gentler.

His eyes snapped open when Miraz's fingertips brushed against that accursed scar.

"Why?" Peter asked suddenly. He felt Miraz withdraw but roughly grabbed the king's hand and pressed it to the fire-damaged flesh, so that the king could feel every bit of scarring. "Why my face?"

Miraz stared at him in a mixture of confusion and consternation.

"Answer me!" Peter snapped, but the king pulled his hand away and closed his eyes.

The months of anguish and imprisonment came rushing back to Peter and suddenly angry, he jumped up and grabbed the injured man's shoulders.

"Look at me, damn you. Why my face?" he spoke venomously, ignoring that he was probably hurting Miraz.

"Why?!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Every time _he_ looks at me, he'll see this disgusting brand, and he'll remember. Every time I look in a mirror _I'll _see it and remember. My sisters, my brother, they _all _see it and they all pity me! _Why my face?!_"

He shook Miraz mercilessly, ignoring the pained groan.

"I'll hate you forever if you don't give me an answer," Peter sobbed.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," the king merely whispered, his eyes full of sorrow, and turned his face away, refusing to say anymore.

"And I thought you could have been a better man," Peter cried out, hands fisted in Miraz's shirt. "To think that I could have…"

The king stared at him and he stared back into those dark eyes.

With a frustrated cry, Peter released Miraz, horrified at himself for assaulting a helpless man. Wiping at his face with his sleeve, he left the tent, almost running away.

……………………………………………….

…………………………………………….

"What's the matter?" Caspian gently asked later, as they sat by the fire and took their evening meal together.

"Nothing," Peter insisted, shaking his head. He busied himself with bread and cheese so he wouldn't have to talk much, but Caspian could sense his tenseness and knew something was upsetting him.

"How's Susan?" asked Caspian, thinking Peter might be worried about his sister.

"She's fine, last I checked," Peter mumbled. "Edmund won't leave her side, so she won't wake up alone."

"That's good," said Caspian, nodding. He sighed heavily. "Our scouts bring word that in the Telmarine camp, Sopespian has spread the news that the king is dead. As chancellor, he has taken completely control of the army, claiming that Miraz has fallen in battle. I suppose loyalty was never one of Sopespian's strong traits."

"I suppose not," Peter whispered in agreement, thinking of the chancellor's leering face as he stabbed Miraz from behind.

"Alright, what's wrong?" Caspian asked again, setting down his mug and looking at Peter intently. "You're shaken."

"I… I can't say, really. Just hold me?"

Peter closed his eyes as Caspian encircled him in strong arms, ever so understanding. "Will you go to see Miraz tomorrow?" Peter said quietly.

Caspian nodded hesitantly. "I must," said the prince, and held Peter tighter.

"I want to go with you," said Peter.

"I don't think you should…"

"I won't speak with him, or even go near him. But I need to see him one last time."

"Well, alright," Caspian conceded, stroking Peter's hair.

That night, neither of them could sleep very well, and Peter kept imagining Miraz lying there, so helpless and in pain. He knew his shifting around was keeping Caspian awake, just as Caspian's uneasy breathing was keeping him awake.

In the morning, they both woke early.

The guards had been relieved and new ones were now guarding the entrance to Miraz's tent. From where he stood, close to the entryway, Peter could see that Cornelius had changed the king's bandages. He didn't go any closer, just stood back and watched as Caspian went hesitantly to Miraz's bedside.

"Uncle," greeted the prince, and Peter turned away when Miraz looked at him.

He listened to them speak for awhile, arms around himself as if to ward off the chill. Peter could tell that, in a way, Caspian was glad he was there. Otherwise, the prince would have had a much harder time.

"Come closer," the king was saying weakly, and Caspian stooped to listen. "I don't have much longer to live and I would confess something to you."

Peter, curiosity piqued, strained to hear what they were saying, but could only catch snatches of conversation.

He was alarmed when Caspian straightened up, anger blazing in dark eyes. Without a word, the prince spun around and stalked towards Peter furiously.

Peter almost balked when Caspian grabbed him about the waist. He gasped when the prince roughly drew Peter's sword from his belt, as Caspian didn't bring his.

"Oh, no," Peter cried, when he realized that the prince was going to kill Miraz. "Caspian, don't!"

He rushed forwards and seized Caspian just as the prince was about to bring Rhindon down over Miraz.

"He killed my father!" the prince cried furiously, struggling against his husband with all his might. "I heard it straight from the vermin's lips! I should have killed him when I had the chance!"

"Stop!" Peter pleaded, pushing Caspian back and standing in front of the injured king. Caspian had the blade pointed straight up and Peter swallowed hard, hoping the prince wouldn't accidentally stab him in his anger.

"The king is unarmed and at our mercy, Caspian. Please put down the sword. If you kill him now, you stain your hands with murder."

"He murdered my father!"

"If your father was half as good as you told me he was, he wouldn't want you to do this!"

"You don't know a thing about it!" Caspian raged, face contorted in pain and sorrow. "He would have wanted vengeance!"

"For _my _sake, then!" Peter cried, shoving the prince back. "Put down the sword, for _my sake_, and yours. I promise you, you will regret it for the rest of your life if you kill him now."

Caspian let out a wordless cry. Panting raggedly, he lowered the sword. Looking as if he'd like to weep, Caspian shoved Rhindon back into Peter's hands.

"This is the most you've ever asked of me," he ground out, "and because I love you, not because I want to, I'll spare him." Turning on his heel, Caspian stalked out.

Hurriedly sheathing Rhindon, Peter made to run after him.

"I was responsible for Helen Pevensie's death too," said Miraz, causing Peter to whirl around in surprise. "I condemned her to die. I was the one who signed the warrant for her execution."

"My mother?" gasped Peter.

"Yes," came the flat reply. Miraz looked up at Peter with an unreadable expression, but Peter refused to be goaded.

With a look of utter disgust at Miraz, Peter turned and ran out.

"Caspian!" he called at his husband's retreating back, saw that Caspian was heading aimlessly for the woods. Just as the prince reached the edges of the camp, Peter caught up and grabbed his arm.

At the look of anguish on his husband's face, Peter embraced the prince with all his strength and Caspian hugged him back, desperately. The prince was shaking all over, and tears were streaming down his face.

Caspian tried to speak, but all that came out were garbled words.

"Shh," Peter soothed. "It's alright, it's alright. I know. Come on."

Slowly, with Caspian shaking as if he'd like to collapse, Peter led the prince back to their tent. He sat his husband down and removed cloak, belt, and shoes. He got a basin full of water and the softest cloth he could find. With the utmost care that Caspian had once shown him, Peter washed his husband's hands, feet, neck, and numb, tear-streaked face.

When Caspian reached for him, Peter held him tightly and let him weep against his shirt, knowing that soon, there would be no time for tears.

"My father would have wanted me to avenge him," Caspian whispered.

"And you have," Peter replied gently, kissing the top of Caspian's head. "You've defeated him in a fair fight, and brought him to his knees. And yet, you've shown him mercy as he was helpless before you. That is stronger and braver than anything else."

"He deserves to die, Peter. Susan was right."

"And he _will _die, my love. But by the treachery that he bred with his own schemes and intrigues, not by you. No, your hands must remain clean if you are to be a better king than he was."

And so, he soothed the prince until Caspian composed himself. They left together after awhile, to conduct the never-ending business of running an army. There were battle strategies to plan, messages to be sent out, duties to be met. Peter didn't think about Miraz until much later.

It was night time when Peter forced himself to visit the dying king again. For some reason, whether it was in the tense look of the guards and the doctor, or just _something _in the air, he knew that the king didn't have long to live and there was something he needed to know. Caspian had not yet retired, so Peter stole away for a short while.

There was yet another set of guards at the tent, both of them sleepy-looking.

Miraz lay, still as ever, blanket tucked in neatly, hands at his sides. Peter thought he was asleep, but the king opened his eyes and turned to look at him.

Silently, Peter went to kneel at Miraz's bedside.

"You've come back," Miraz said, his voice thick with pain and fatigue. "I didn't think you wanted to see me again. You shouldn't be here, you know. Doesn't _he _need you?"

Peter reached out and brushed a stray lock of sweaty hair from Miraz's forehead. He looked sadly on that noble face, now pale and sickly.

"Liar," Peter said softly, smiling a bit. "You didn't kill my mother. You didn't even know who she was, until that time I asked you about her. Why did you lie?"

Miraz coughed a little and turned away. Irritably, he brushed Peter's hand off.

"See, I believe that you murdered King Caspian IX, and it wouldn't be too strange for you to want to confess it, now that you're dying. But why would you lie about my mother?"

The king didn't answer, a small frown on his lips.

"Was it because you wanted me to hate you?" Peter asked. "Just one last offence against me? One last chance to hurt me?"

"It wasn't just to hurt you," the king said hurriedly.

"Of course not. You wanted me to despise you for it. Why?"

Miraz sighed and turned to look at Peter. His face was colored with bruises, and seemed so vulnerable all of a sudden.

"It was because I saw the doubt in your eyes when you looked at me," said the king. "And I knew you could never be happy with him if I died and left you with that doubt."

Miraz laughed a bit, coughing. "I should have know better, though. One such as you," he took Peter's hand in his, "could never really hate anyone."

A sudden spasm of pain flash across Miraz's face, and Peter winced in dismay when the king groaned heavily.

"Peter!" he gasped hoarsely, squeezing onto Peter's hand. "I don't have much time left. I can feel myself dying. My heart… Quick, you must tell someone to come, not Caspian, for he is still too angry and might not listen. I am ready to tell everything, all the information about my troops and Sopespian's battle plans, anything that might help. Sopespian is my enemy now."

"I will!" Peter said, and stood to go, but Miraz held him back.

"Wait!" gasped the king. "I have one last thing to ask of you, before I never see you again."

"What is it?" asked Peter, not realizing that tears were running down his face.

"Forgive me?"

Peter shook his head, biting down on his lips so as not to cry out loud. "You ask too much of me."

"I thought so," said the king. "Then may I ask for something else?"

"What is it?" Peter asked again, coming back down to kneel beside the king, so close they were almost touching.

"A kiss?"

Peter laughed sadly, shaking his head. "You still ask for too much."

Still, as he watched Miraz's eyes slowly slip closed and heard the man's hitching breath, Peter brought trembling to cup the king's face. He brought his lips ever so gently to the king's pale ones and tenderly kissed the dying man, felt Miraz sigh and smile under him. It was strangely exhilarating.

When he straightened up again, Peter saw that the pain lines had gone from Miraz's face, and he almost looked peaceful.

"Now, I am almost ready," the king said quietly.

Wordlessly, shaking a bit, Peter smoothed out Miraz's bedclothes and stood to go. He turned and froze when he saw Caspian standing there, at the entrance. He couldn't speak, couldn't move.

The prince was wearing a strange expression on his face and without a word, turned and left, the tent flap swinging behind him.

_No, no, _Peter thought in horror. _How long had he been there? What had he seen? _

…………………………………….

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Notes: Thank you all so much for reading! I hope I did ok, portraying what went down between Pete and Miraz. Please leave feedback and lemme know what you think! ^_^


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 31:

Heart pounding, Peter straightened himself and headed after the retreating prince, hearing the king sigh behind him. Shivering a bit in the cold and blinking in the light of the yellow campfires, Peter spotted his husband walking briskly away and he hurried to catch up.

He felt numb.

_Dear Aslan_, _what have I done?_

He clutched his hands to keep them from shaking, his mind whirling with the possible consequences.

What if Caspian had seen that kiss? But no, he didn't know how long the prince had been standing there. For all Peter knew, Caspian could have just seen him straightening Miraz's blanket.

"Caspian!" he called, jogging up. The prince acted as if he hadn't heard and continued his steady pace. Peter called out his husband's name again, urgently, with his voice almost breaking.

The prince stopped this time, but didn't turn around. Peter caught up, breathing anxiously. He put a hand on his husband's shoulder and slowly, Caspian turned and looked at him.

Blue eyes desperately searched dark brown ones for reproach, anger, _anything_, but Caspian remained rather expressionless. Peter felt a guilty pang in his heart, and Caspian's lack of anger stung all the more.

"Caspian, I can explain," Peter began.

"No," the prince said abruptly, and reached out and took Peter's hand. His mouth remained expressionless, but his eyes were sad. "There's no need to explain." He stroked Peter's hand, fondly, lovingly. Peter swallowed with difficulty.

"I…"

"I trust you, Peter. I shouldn't need to demand an explanation from my own husband, right?"

Wordlessly, Peter nodded, feeling awful. Caspian leaned close and kissed him softly. Peter almost recoiled, the guilt burning at him, that Caspian might taste Miraz's lips lingering on his.

"I trust you," Caspian repeated. "I know you'll always do what's right. I… I have to go now."

With that, the prince turned and left, to talk with Glenstorm about their supply routes. Peter sighed, looking worriedly after him.

After awhile, when Caspian didn't return, he went and fetched Dr. Cornelius. Together, Peter and the doctor went to Miraz for the promised information. To their surprise, Miraz did not tell them battle strategies, where the army was situated, or what Sopespian's agenda was. Instead, the dying man gave them names.

Gergiore, Rhince, Revilian, the former lords of the court, the lesser nobles, the deposed officials, and all manner of Telmarine names. In his prime, before he became paranoid with power, Miraz had been shrewder and subtler. Between the supporters of the deceased King Caspian IX, power-hungry dukes, and nobles who simply disliked him, Miraz had plenty of enemies.

He banished most of them, demoted others, and some he killed. Those he banished, whether to the far barren corners of Narnia or other countries beyond the borders, he kept a close watch on. Without his exiled enemies knowing, Miraz monitored their every move through spies, and instead of punishing them and stamping them out whenever they showed signs of rebellion, the king allowed them to gather some supporters and build their own militias.

Of course, clever manipulation of Telmarine trade routes, locations of spies and double agents, and all manner of tricks kept these tiny rebellions from ever erupting into anything serious. For years, the anger of the ill-treated supporters of Caspian IX and his son were stoked but never allowed to inflame.

"They will be your allies," Miraz rasped weakly, as Dr. Cornelius and Peter took note of names and locations. "You cannot win against Sopespian with the forces you have now or by out-witting him, for he is a brilliant war strategist. Not even I know what he has planned, fool that I was to trust him. You need more troops, and something he will not expect. Turn his own countrymen against him, and you will defeat him.

"These men… they have always loved Prince Caspian and will rally to him."

…………………………………….

……………………………………….

Later that night, Peter couldn't sleep as he lay with Caspian, listening to the prince's breathing. In the dark, Caspian pressed against Peter's back and wrapped an arm around his waist. He kissed the back of Peter's neck, then slowly down the length of his throat as he toyed with the ties to Peter's shirt.

With an uncomfortable noise, Peter pulled away and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head as if to dispel old ghosts. He kept seeing the king's eyes, dark as night, leering and burning above him, then red and narrowed in helplessness, and then dead. Forever dimmed of that dark, fiery passion.

"What's the matter?" Caspian asked, sitting up as well.

"I just… I don't…"

With a gasp and a shudder, Peter slumped and pressed his hands against his face. Alarmed, Caspian tried to put his arms around Peter.

"He raped me," Peter choked out, shaking in Caspian's grasp. The prince tensed. This was the first time Peter spoke of his ordeal so directly. "For the longest time, I was so ashamed. I thought it was my fault and he… he tortured me with lies that you were gone. I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve any of it!"

Caspian held Peter's hand so tightly it hurt. "If you want him dead…" said the prince with a hard edge to his voice.

"No!" cried Peter. "Don't you think I would have done it myself if I'd wanted him dead? That's just it. I..."

He couldn't find words to say what he felt. Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure himself why he was so conflicted, afraid of his own feelings. He couldn't hate the man who had done so much to him, couldn't hate Miraz because Miraz lay wounded and dying.

"It isn't fair," he whispered.

With a sob, Peter buried his face in Caspian neck. Uncontrollably, he wept for the anguish he felt, the wounds that Miraz had caused him and the strange emotions he felt for the king, and the empty abyss within his heart from knowing the king would die.

Caspian held him, heart breaking at seeing his beloved so distressed.

"Oh, Peter, Peter," whispered Caspian, struggling to keep tears from running down his own face. He stroked Peter's heaving back and lowered the other boy down so he could cradle Peter like a child.

"I'm here for you," he declared fiercely. "Whatever you want, whatever you need, I'll always be here."

Caspian held Peter through the night, rocked him, wept with him, whispered reassurances to him in the dark, trying so desperately to drive out whatever guilt and pain was plaguing his young husband.

And during that night, the king lay in his sickbed, gazing up into nothing. Only Cornelius remained by his side, illuminated by a solitary candle that flickered and danced.

His breath hitched, and his face twisted every now and then in pain. It was cold.

Slowly, Miraz turned his crownless head on the sweat-stained pillow. Cornelius was dozing off where he sat, lined face propped in his hand. Tufts of woolly beard peaked out from between his fingers.

Miraz sighed and closed his eyes. He could feel the pulse in his wrists, still pounding away, but the pain was growing numb. He smoothed his palms over the thin bedspread and tried to imagine satiny fabric beneath his skin. He shifted his chin and tried to feel the seed pearl embroidery on his nightshirt collar, but there was nothing. Rubbing his fingers together failed to produce the cool weight of his rings.

"Doctor!" the king rasped soundlessly, feeling a sudden thrill of fear and desperation. _I'm dying!_

The fallen king tried to call to memory the soft skin and hair of his baby son, but couldn't. He tried to remember his wife's kind eyes, back when they were still young and loved each other. He wanted to recall the gentleness of her voice, the warmth of her arms, but couldn't. He tried to picture his father's kingly face and there was such a terrible ache in his heart when he remembered the strong, dark contours of Caspian IX.

And then, there was nothing but the impossibly soft, milk and honey features of Peter's fair visage. Miraz ached to remember that bright young face turn sour and pale when he inflicted his sick appetites on Peter.

"Dear Peter," he sighed. As life slowly left him, the king imagined eyes so blue they seemed to be pieces of the sky itself, splintered off and fallen to earth in two perfect orbs. He thought he could see Peter's eyes and in them, stars. If he tried hard enough, Miraz could imagine those rosy lips curved upwards in the loveliest of smiles, could hear that enchanting voice speak kindly to him at last in that lilting, exotic accent.

For a horrifying moment, Miraz saw the frail, shaking, golden-haired boy spread out on the frost-covered forest floor, lying down to put his head on the wooden block. The scarred cheek rested gently in the niche and the pale arms spread outwards, like wings. Thank heavens that the executioner's axe had not fallen, and there was no memory of a fount of blood to torture him in this last hour!

The taste of Peter burned on Miraz's lips, though that kiss was only a memory now.

One last time, he opened delirious red eyes. The sheets felt smoother now, the air warmer and sweeter.

"_I forgive you,"_ said Peter, who wasn't really there. The golden-haired phantom leaned over and smiled down at Miraz and the king saw eternity in those eyes, so wonderfully blue. A cool, white, _ringless_ hand rested gently on his forehead and the king sighed.

He closed his eyes again until he could see fields of yellow wheat, spread out far, far into the horizon until the line of burnished gold touched the bluest sky he had ever seen, and breathed his last.

……………………….

………………………

In the morning, Dr. Cornelius reported in a grave voice that the king was dead. Peter, face numb and still damp, held tightly to Caspian's arms as he heard the news. He felt cold as he stared into the dew-covered grass, unable to look at the doctor's tired face as he delivered the news.

Almost the entire camp was gathered around, listening eagerly for the story of Miraz's death. Caspian was stony-faced the whole time, though he shook ever so slightly.

"He went quietly," said Cornelius, and the words seemed to echo through Peter's mind. Everything seemed so distant in that moment, and all he could think of was the king, hard, cold, and terrible in his anger, fiery, hot, passionate, dark eyes blazing, but no more. In the corner of his eye, Peter saw Caspian lower his head.

The Narnians were murmuring among themselves. Some called out angrily, some joyously, some even cheered.

"Hail King Caspian!" someone called out from the crowd, repeated by others, and that did it.

A breathless little noise was all the warning Peter got before Caspian fell against him, face deathly pale and eyes so anguished Peter thought the prince was dying.

"Caspian!" he gasped, grabbing onto his husband's arm before Caspian could slip to the ground.

A moan escaped from Caspian's lips, and he hurriedly waved his hand as if to say, "I'm alright, I'm alright." Yet, before he could speak, the prince broke out in a great sob and doubled over again.

The Narnians' murmurings quieted at this display.

"Get up! Get _up_!" Peter hissed, pulling at Caspian with both hands, trying to heave the prince upright again. "They're watching."

As quickly as he could, Peter took hold of Caspian and marched him away across the clearing until they were among trees and out of sight.

Caspian collapsed against him, near the foot of a tree, and Peter gently lowered Caspian to the ground.

"My uncle," sobbed the prince, almost incoherently. "He was my uncle. My father… I loved him like a father!"

_How strange, that he should be the first to weep for Miraz_, thought Peter. With a pained look, he knelt over Caspian and embraced him tightly.

This time, it was Caspian who cried into Peter's arms as the Narnian tried to be strong, comforting the prince the best he knew how.

"He was the only family I had, and now he's gone. He took my father and mother away from me, and now he's gone! He was a murderer, he was _vile_, but he was the last of my kin, the last of _me_…" Caspian cried, shaking and crying so uncontrollably he thought he'd be sick.

"I'm here, I'm here," Peter soothed, lips at Caspian's cheek and a hand in his dark hair. "I'm your family, remember? I'll always be here, my love."

Slowly, those terrible sobs quieted, until the only sound was the running of the nearby stream, the twittering of a bird, and the distant cries of "long live King Caspian!"

"Here," said Peter gently, handing Caspian his clean handkerchief to wipe his face.

Presently, Drinian found them, sitting side by side and holding hands while Caspian rested his head on Peter's shoulder. The Telmarine looked grave.

"They want to burn his body and throw his ashes to the wind," said the ex-courtier. "Some of them want to tear him to bits and leave him out for the wolves."

_Those savages_.

It remained unspoken but Peter saw it in Drinian's expression, that disdainful twist of the handsome Telmarine's lips.

"Oh, but they must not!" cried Caspian, getting to his feet.

"No, they mustn't," said Peter, looking hard at Drinian, "but a people persecuted, enslaved, and driven to war for generations have the right to at least demand justice, no matter how brutal."

"Yes, of course," Drinian said quickly, inclining his head respectfully. "But he _was _a king, despite all his crimes."

"He'll need a funeral," said Caspian, sighing and running a hand through his mussed up hair.

"Then we should send an emissary to Sopespian's camp and have them retrieve Miraz's body," said Peter.

"No," Caspian replied shortly. "If Miraz's former supporters haven't come for him in all this time, they wouldn't want him now. Even when Sopespian spread the news that Miraz was dead, no one came for his body." There was a fierce look in his eyes.

"Be reasonable," said Peter gently taking the prince's shoulders. "We can't give him a funeral here. Our people wouldn't stand for it. We'll consign his body to his own countrymen. It's all we can do."

Caspian seemed to deflate a little and nodded.

"Are you alright to go back now?"

The prince nodded again. Together, holding hands tightly, they returned to camp with Drinian behind them.

Peter was the one who spoke to the gathered Narnians, while Caspian stood stiffly by. In a clear voice, he announced that Miraz's remains were not to be harmed, that the king's body would be brought to Sopespian's people to do as they saw fit.

"Hail King Caspian!" some of them called again, but all Caspian could do was nod dumbly, downcast eyes feeling sore. He didn't feel like a king or even a prince at that moment.

Emissaries were sent out, messengers dispatched, and Peter stood by his side in the frenzy of activity that came afterwards.

"Do you think I was weak?" Caspian asked him later, in the quietude of their own tent. "I didn't mean to break down. I didn't want to be weak."

"Oh, no," said Peter, coming to sit besides the despondent-looking figure. "You aren't weak, not at all. You're one of the bravest people I know."

He laid a hand on Caspian's knee, the other wrapped around the prince's shoulder. He didn't know quite what to say as he stared at his husband's furrowed brow, the self-doubting eyes.

The gentle pressure of Peter's palm on Caspian's leg elicited a shiver.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but the next moment, Caspian's mouth was at his neck, hot and panting, and they were struggling over each other, hands grasping and pulling and delving into intimate places. The thin shield of tension was broken once again.

One minute they were sitting tiredly by each other, worrying about everything in the world and the next, they were making love.

"Touch me," Peter gasped, grabbing Caspian's wrists and impatiently guiding the prince to remove his clothes. His skin felt feverish, burning as Caspian pressed kisses everywhere.

The prince moaned heavily above him, grasping at Peter's hips while Peter fought to unbuckle his belt.

Everything around him was hot and frenzied and Peter cried out when Caspian plunged a hand into his trousers. Peter fisted the fabric beneath his fingers and Caspian hid his face in Peter's neck as he moved and grunted. They could hear fabric ripping, but neither of them cared. Trousers and undergarments were quickly discarded, thrown aside to the ground.

"Faster," urged Peter, as Caspian pushed his legs apart and entered him with fingers.

"I don't want to hurt you," Caspian panted huskily, dizzy with desire but hesitating all the same.

"I don't _care_!" growled Peter and he grabbed a fistful of dark curls and brought Caspian down to slam their mouths together in a brutal kiss.

Hips lifted, he cried out sharply nonetheless when Caspian entered him. His fingers twisted into claws, Peter clutched at Caspian's back, ripping into the shirt that was still hanging off the prince's shoulder.

All gentleness abandoned with lust, Peter moaned and grunted and struggled as he sucked on the prince's tongue and groped at Caspian's naked backside. Tears sprang to his eyes, whether from the painful rhythm of Caspian within him or the emotions he couldn't contain any longer, he didn't know.

Caspian grunted and strained with each thrust and when he shuddered and came with a shout, Peter sobbed out his release as well. The prince's face was red, sweaty, and beautiful above him and Peter ran his hands through the dark hair.

"We should go," said Caspian, after they had lain in each other's arms for awhile, catching their breath. "We shouldn't be here. There's so much to be done."

"Just a little while longer," Peter whispered back, resting his blond head on Caspian's arm and closing his eyes, not caring that he ached and that their clothes lay scattered around them.

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In her deep, unmoving sleep, with her brother Edmund constantly by her side, Susan dreamt.

She thought she was standing at the edge of a cliff and the world lay below her feet. She saw men fighting and fighting, squabbling over pieces of earth like so many insignificant insects. She saw the world bound in chains, the trees dead and still.

Behind her, she heard the sweet sound of _His _call. She turned and saw a majestic wood, thick and green. Heavy boughs intertwined with each other, laden with glistening green leaves. Treetops stretched high into the sky, into the heavens themselves.

_Susan_, Aslan called, and Susan followed that voice until she was lost among the trees. All around, the green pressed against her, enveloping her.

There was a flash of gold. She looked down and saw a chrysanthemum in the soil, just beginning to bloom.

_Find me_. _Find the place where my powers are strongest, and I will wake the trees._ _Call for me._

Susan realized she was barefoot, standing on the warm earth. Beneath her soles she could feel a deep, rhythmic hum, like a heartbeat.

With a start, she woke and the weight of the pain and the cold came crashing down on her. She gasped hoarsely through chapped lips.

She struggled to sit up and groaned at the effort, waking Edmund who had fallen asleep by her bedside, dark head resting on folded arms.

"Susan, you're awake!" he cried happily. She could see he had bags under his eyes and his face was dirty and tear-streaked, his shirt rumpled as if he hadn't changed it for days. He looked as if he wanted to leap on her and hug her, but restrained himself to just grabbing her hand.

"Could you get me some water?" she croaked, rubbing at her eyes. As Edmund darted, quick as a flash, to the nearby table and poured water into a cup from a ceramic pitcher, she painfully lifted herself into a sitting position. Her torso was covered in clean bandages.

As Edmund ran out to call the doctor, Susan drank the tepid water from a wooden cup. She looked around, squinting into the dark. She could still feel the touch of leaves on her face and hair, and branches that waved as if they were alive. In her mind, she still heard the deep, resounding call of the Lion.

………………………………

……………………………..

Layers of gray, raggedy cloth peeled back to reveal the gleam of smooth ivory. Years had not dimmed the luster of the horn, and Cornelius' hands fairly shook with excitement as he held it up for her to see. How long he had carried it in a parcel hidden in his cloak, he couldn't remember.

"What is it?" asked Susan.

At her full height, Susan Pevensie was rather smaller than Dr. Cornelius had expected. The gray shift she had wrapped around her shoulders made her seem thin and frail. Yet, he recognized in those blue eyes, adamancy and a fierce, almost childlike determination.

"We've never been properly introduced," she had said simply, as he tended to her wounds that day, "but they tell me you are a great scholar and historian as well as a physician, Doctor."

He had peered at her curiously over his unpolished spectacles. In a few, low words, she told him of her visions and his blood, intermingled of Telmarine and Narnian ancestry, ran hot at the mention of Aslan. She conjured up images of walking trees and leaves that whispered cries of help, and the ever-strong call from the Lion Himself.

"This," he replied to her, holding the parcel tightly as if reluctant to part with it, "is the greatest treasure in Narnia. All the gold that the Telmarine kings ever hoarded cannot compare in worth and beauty. I have endured so many dangers to get this, when I was young. It is the magic horn of Queen Susan herself, the first queen in Narnia by that name."

"Impossible," whispered Susan, eyes wide in awe. "It was said to be a myth."

"Until recently, so was Aslan," retorted the doctor, a bit chidingly. With fingers that still clung reverently to the precious relic, he held it for her to take.

She plucked it from his hands eagerly, despite her doubts. With hungry eyes, she examined every detail of the fine carving. The ivory lion's maw opened in a roar and its eyes seemed to glint at her. She ran her fingers over the cool surface, marveling at how smooth and fine it was.

"I have heard that whoever blows it shall receive strange help," offered the doctor.

"Well, we're looking for strange help indeed," she said.

"Perhaps it has the power to wake the spirits of the trees, or even call Aslan to us," said Cornelius, though it sounded wrong and strange, even as he said it, that Aslan could be called by a horn. "So you must be especially careful not to use it until the right moment and the right place. You must go to the Stone Table."

"Why the Stone Table?"

"It was there that Aslan was said to have invoked the Deep Magic. Hundreds of years ago, at that very spot, the White Witch struck Him down, but He rose again in all His glory. That is where you must go, for _that _is where Aslan's powers were greatest."

She nodded. "Then I will go. I must."

Prince Caspian (though most of his people now referred to him as King) was gone for the day, traveled further west to meet with the exiled Telmarine Lords, hoping that they would still be his supporters. The whole camp was abuzz, with emissaries and troops coming and going, supplies and weapons being stocked.

Peter barely had time to see his sister for a short while before he left too, armor-clad as if ready for war.

Susan was glad, for this meant she would not have to explain her actions while the camp was preoccupied with other things. Not many people, she thought, would believe in the veracity of dreams. Though, if she were to be completely honest, she might have admitted that it was partly ego that so set her mind on completing this quest alone.

And so, she saddled a horse by herself and hefted her bow and sword to her back. The horn hung across her chest from a strap of red leather.

Her injuries still felt raw and she winced when she felt the muscles protest under strain, but she was more worried about the difficulties of getting past the creatures that usually guarded the entrance to the How. With the hags, werewolves, vampires, and all sorts of terrible monsters still at large, she wasn't sure how she would get there safely. Still, she put her faith in Aslan and trusted that by herself, she could move through the woods stealthily enough and get to the Stone Table without being seen. Or at least, have enough time to blow the horn before she was attacked and hopefully, some sort of help would arrive.

"Remember, do not blow the horn until you have reached the Stone Table," Cornelius warned her one last time, as she mounted. "I'm not certain of how its magic should work, so you must make sure it is the right time and place."

"I'll try," she said, voice fervent, and bade Cornelius farewell. She dug her heels into the horse's side, setting off at a slow pace so as not to attract too much attention.

However, she did not get far before someone noticed her leaving and ran up to her.

"Where are you going, Lady?" asked Rynelf, stepping close so he almost brushed the horse's flank. "It isn't safe for you to be traveling in your state, especially not alone."

"And it isn't your place to question me," she responded coolly. She flicked the reins gently to urge the horse forward, but Rynelf threw himself in her path, making the horse rear slightly.

Susan's eyes flashed dangerously at him, daring him to challenge her again.

"I won't question you," he said quickly and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "But let me go with you. I would escort you where you go and ensure your safety."

"No, I go alone," she said shortly.

"Please," he said, and she hesitated. Her face softened at his earnest expression.

"No," she repeated, but held out her hand, which he took in both of his as if it were a lily-white treasure. "But I am grateful for your kindness." She held his gaze for a moment, then withdrew, kicking her horse into a light gallop and heading deep into the woods.

She waited until he was out of sight before releasing a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her face felt oddly hot, but she brushed that aside with a toss of her head to keep focused on her task.

After traveling for awhile, Susan found herself grateful that she knew the woods so well. The light was poor though it was still daytime. The boughs of the trees around her stretched up so high and thick that they nearly blocked out the sun, making everything around her a dark green.

She slowed her horse down to a trot. It was cold and damp in the woods, and branches kept brushing against her face, tangling in her hair. High-reaching briars scratched at her legs, tearing tiny holes into her kirtle despite her attempts to avoid them. Frustrated, she batted angrily at the surrounding foliage with her fist, nearly dislodging the horn that hung at her side.

Late into the afternoon, she stopped to rest and uttered a disgusted groan when she noticed a fat caterpillar crawling up her sleeve, flinging it away from her. The woods felt stifling and the earth was damp. She took a drink from a jug of water and sat by a nearby tree so she could check her bandages.

She was so preoccupied with how uncomfortable she was that she barely heard it: the faintest of noises a bit ways off, just a tiny crackle so it may have been the wind disturbing a branch. On her guard, she quickly finished her refreshment. She was careful to give no sign that she suspected she was being watched or followed.

Alert to every noise, she mounted her horse again and kept her bow at easy reach. After another hour of riding, she was absolutely sure she was being followed. Her tracker was taking pains to keep quiet, stopping when she stopped, only making noise when her horse's hooves fell.

Susan was sure it wasn't an enemy, or at least if was an enemy, it was a spy. Her tracker had made no move to harm her or expose himself, even when she deliberately slowed to make herself vulnerable, all the while keeping a death grip on the hilt of her sword.

She traveled this way until it was starting to get dark. Finally, she dismounted as if to rest. On the trail behind her, she could hear quiet panting, as if the person had been struggling to keep up with her the entire time.

Deciding she had quite enough, Susan drew an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to her bow in one quick movement and aimed directly at the spot where she heard the noise.

"Alright, show yourself!" she called out angrily, fully expecting it to be Rynelf following her.

To her utter surprise, a mop of dark brown curls and a freckled face peeked out from behind a tree.

"_Edmund!_" she nearly shrieked, dropping her bow in haste. "What in the world are you doing here?!"

Edmund cringed a little at her yelling. "I wanted to make sure you were safe," he mumbled, blushing.

"I didn't ask for you to keep me safe, you stupid boy!" she said, this time in a fierce whisper, remembering a bit late that her entire journey depended on stealth. "I was perfectly safe setting out on my own!"

"Well _I_ didn't think so," he said with a shrug and a sullen look.

"Ohh, you…!" Susan growled, so frustrated she was at a loss for words. "You could have been _killed_, you could have gotten lost in the woods and captured by the Telmarines, or the Witch's people!"

She stalked over to him and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. He paled a little at the genuine fear in her eyes.

"Go back," she demanded. "Go back right now."

"Can't," he replied with a shrug. "I got lost trying to follow you."

Susan looked like she might cuff him out of frustration but only barely contained herself. "Do you even know where I'm heading? I'm going into the most dangerous parts of these woods, the Stone Table! Do you know what that means? There's so much at stake here, Edmund, and I can't afford to have you with me and distract me!"

"I won't distract you," he mumbled. "I'll keep out of sight, I promise. What _are _you going there for, anyway?"

"Keeping out of sight isn't good enough!" she snapped, ignoring his query. "What if something happens to you? What if I can't protect you? Oh, you never think things through, do you? Just like with…" she broke off with an angry sigh and looked away.

Edmund bowed his head and looked hurt. "I wanted to be with you," he said in a small voice.

"Well now you've seen me," she huffed, standing up and stalking away from him. "And I hope you're satisfied because you've made things a lot harder for me." A brief flicker of pain crossed her face and she pressed her hand to her bosom, where the arrow wound was.

"Get up and take the reins," she commanded. "The horse will know the way back to camp."

"I don't want to go back!" Edmund protested.

"You'll do as I say!" she snapped. "Haven't you already done enough? I'll have to walk the rest of the way because you didn't have the sense to stay with the others!"

He looked like he wanted to argue more, but the defiance went out of his eyes at his sister's look of pain.

"I'm sorry," he said, crestfallen and ashamed. With a quiet grunt, he put his foot in the stirrup and hefted himself into the saddle. He had already decided to secretly wait with the horse until she was done with…. well, whatever she had to do… and take her back to camp.

"I really am sorry," he sighed.

"Just go," she said softly, and gave the horse a little pat on the rump.

The horse turned and slowly trod back in the other direction. However, it hadn't taken a dozen paces before it reared back with a troubled whinny.

"Whoa!" Edmund cried, trying to keep balanced. The horse reared again, its eyes growing wide and ears pressing back.

With a sudden chill, Susan realized how dark it was and judging from the landmarks she had remembered, how close they had wandered to the Stone Table. There was a tang of foulness in the air.

"Susan, I think something's wrong," Edmund said shakily.

The only warning was a twang of bowstrings.

"_Get down_!" Susan shouted, just as a barrage of barbed arrows flew through the air. Edmund just had enough time to duck, but two of the bolts struck the horse.

With a scream, the beast bucked and collapsed, flailing with his hooves. Edmund was thrown off and landed hard on his back. Susan saw his ankle twist as he fell, his foot caught in the stirrup.

Groaning and dazed, Edmund tried to stand.

Snatching up her bow, Susan leapt forward and tackled Edmund to the ground, pushing them both behind the horse's dying body as more of the poisoned arrows flew. More arrows struck the carcass that shielded them.

"Run!" she cried, giving him a push, when there was a lull in the attacks. As Edmund limped away as fast as he could, pale with fear, she nocked an arrow and prepared to fire.

To her horror, a whole host of evil creatures were bearing down on them. Hags shrieked their fury, razor sharp claws stretching out. Ogres with their clubs roared and stamped the earth so the ground shook. Goblins squealed and hissed as they staggered towards her, daggers held high. Werewolves appeared, snarling, from behind every tree and bush so that she hardly knew where to aim.

She could hear Edmund's panicky breathing behind her and knew they were surrounded.

Her first arrow took down one of hags. Quick as a flash, she nocked and loosed a second but didn't get to see if it landed before one of the wolves leaped on her. Screaming, she fell as the beast laughed and opened its fangs to tear out her throat.

With a yell, Edmund jumped on the wolf's back and used a rock to bash its head repeatedly with all his strength. The wolf fell down, temple bleeding and jaw broken, whimpering.

"Come on, run!" Susan gasped, struggling to her feet and grabbing Edmund's hand, leaving her bow behind. The creatures were at too close a distance for her to use it well.

But there was nowhere to run. Everywhere they dashed, more of their enemies appeared from the woods, snarling and laughing, almost teasing them.

Susan felt utter loathing in the pit of her stomach, that she should die at the hands of such filth before she even managed to reach the Stone Table. And Edmund with her... that was probably the worst feeling of all.

"Your sword!" she cried, and Edmund drew it from his belt, having forgotten it in his panic. His face was twisted with fear and anger, and he was shaking.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered to him, not sure if he heard. The monsters drew near them hissing and jeering, mouths open in horrid leers.

"You are trespassing on the White Lady's forest!" one of the sneered. "You forfeit your lives to us."

"You will let us pass," Susan said, trying not to let her voice shake, and the others laughed raucously. One of the ogres reached out and tried to grab Edmund, who yelled and slashed wildly with his sword.

With a shout, Susan drew her own sword and dashed towards the thinnest part of the crowd. With adrenaline racing through her blood, she brought her blade down on a pair of goblins, blocking their attacks and slicing open their pale, bloated bodies.

They bit her and scratched at her face as they died, and then the whole wood rang with screams and bellows as the creatures attacked them all at once.

She couldn't hear herself screaming, only knew her mouth was open and her throat ached, as she plunged her sword into one after another enemy, only to have others take their place. This was unlike any battle she had ever been in, with gaping mouths and glowing eyes pressing down on her from every side.

Teeth bit at her and claws tore at her hair, her clothes. She was suffocating as they pressed against her, barely managing to parry away their weapons and plunge her blade in, again and again into the mass of bodies. She could feel blood down her arm, her legs, and trickling down her face, her own blood mingled with that of her enemies. In the distance, she heard Edmund sobbing.

A blow to the side of the head knocked her to her knees and a goblin jumped on her back. Furious, she slammed her elbow back into its cackling mouth and threw the creature off. Gasping for breath, she struggled to her feet and slashed at the creatures' legs as they tried to overcome her. When many of them fell, she pulled herself upright and looked around wildly for her brother.

What she saw were more and more of the monsters, appearing out of the ground, from the skies on their leathery wings. Her heart sank when she realized they would probably never make it.

To her right, the ogre had Edmund down on the ground, a big hand pulling on the boy's hair. The monster raised its club high to dash Edmund's brains out.

Susan let out a whimper of fear and desperation when she saw two werewolves flanking her, crouched and ready to jump. Her brother…

An imp ran up to her side and snarling, grabbed hold of the ivory horn that hung from her shoulder. With a snap, the leather broke and the creature made to run off with its prize but Susan slammed her sword down on its head, crushing its skull.

She snatched it up and not knowing what else to do, brought it to her lips and blew.

Notes: Thank you all so much for reading! Please feedback and let me know what you think!

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	32. Chapter 32

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 32:

"Well, I hope you're happy about this," Susan grouched for what seemed like the hundredth time. She kicked at the ground and sent up a clump of dead leaves and wet earth.

"I _said_ I was sorry," said Edmund, looking genuinely ashamed. He leaned heavily on his makeshift crutch, a long, damp, partially-skinned branch. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Never mind, just help me look for it."

The surrounding woods looked mangled. Gouges and claw prints disturbed the forest floor and nearby trees stood with branches broken off and chunks of bark ripped out. A stray piece of torn fur or skin, a drop of blood here and there, were reminders of the would-be massacre that had almost taken place.

Edmund shuddered, clutching the branch tightly, at the memory of being held down and brutalized by the horrid monsters. He winced as he accidentally put weight on his sprained ankle.

Another muffled curse reached his ears. He could tell Susan was fuming. Whatever plan she had was now botched; she had blown the horn before reaching the Stone Table.

A rich, resonating sound had shaken the earth when she pressed the magic horn to her lips and blew. The wicked beasts had shrieked in pain, as if the sound was poisonous. With claws pressed to their heads, they had scattered and run.

However, in the ensuing clamor, one of the hags had pushed Susan to the ground in its hurry to escape, and when Susan rose again, she no longer held the horn in her hand. She didn't know whether it was lost or stolen, only that the most precious thing she ever owned was gone.

Now, she was roughly pushing her way into the bushes, hands tearing away mercilessly at the greenery, searching for a hint of pale ivory on the ground.

Edmund sighed. He could hear her muttering to herself, frustrated. Unfairly, she had blamed him at first, for foiling her plans and drawing the attention of the Narnian monsters and ultimately losing the horn.

"Ugh!" she muttered. "These wretched brambles." Angrily, she kicked at the foliage and wiped at the moistness on her face. It was humid and her face was sweaty and abraded here and there. Clumps of damp hair stuck to her neck. A fat caterpillar was crawling up her arm and she crushed it in her hand with an angry cry.

They searched until it grew too dark to see and Susan's shoulders slumped in a sad arc of defeat.

Almost fatigued to the point of tears, Edmund put a hand on her shoulder and nudged her a little.

"I'm sorry," he said again, rather miserably, though he had forgotten what he was apologizing for. "Can't we just go back?"

"Go back?" Susan said with a bitter laugh. "Go back to what? I've failed, don't you see? I had the chance to win us this war and I've lost it. I'll be crawling back in defeat, like some fool! That horn was my only hope and now I've lost it. We could have used whatever magic was in that horn, but it's _lost, _you see?"

"But we've done all we can and it's nowhere to be found. We should go back and tell Caspian and maybe he'll know what to do."

She made a frustrated noise that sounded like a sob and clutched at her hair.

"The horn must be found! It's everything. It's my hope! Mine and not Caspian's!"

"It's just a horn, Susan!" Edmund cried angrily. He was tired and hungry, his clothes filthy and bloody and every part of him aching. Anytime else, he would have gladly done her bidding until he dropped from exhaustion, but his near brush with death left him shaky and very much in need of comfort and Susan would only rage and gnash her teeth because she lost her treasure.

She turned on him at once, eyes blazing with anger. Her hands clenched into fists and she let out a wordless snarl. Paling, Edmund shrank back a bit, hating himself for having galled her.

She stalked towards him and made as if to strike him, but all of a sudden, the fight went out of her. The exertion of the battle and the pain from her wound finally overwhelmed her and she dropped her arm with an exhausted sigh.

All the strength seemed to seep from her as the blood drained from her face. Like a child, she flopped down to the ground, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

With cry of dismay, Edmund threw himself down beside her and buried his face in her hair, wrapping his arms around her. He had never seen her so distressed since that night she suffered her first great loss in battle.

"D-don't cry," he murmured anxiously, stroking his hands up and down her trembling arms.

"Oh, what you must think of me," she sobbed. "What Aslan must think of me! He called me to find him, but I don't know where to go without that horn. I can't go to the Stone Table now, but where shall I go? I can't go back without finding Him!"

"Susan, it's almost nightfall," said Edmund, shivering. He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, seeing ominous clouds steal what little sunshine was left. He thought it would snow and drew his cloak tighter around himself.

Gently, he coaxed her up and she clung to him like a vise. He rubbed her cold hands and urged her to walk.

"Come on," Edmund said. "Before it starts to snow."

With her brother's hand on her elbow, Susan walked numbly from the clearing where they had been attacked. Even as she stumbled over rocks and branches, she kept her head lowered, eyes scanning the ground continuously for the horn.

As Edmund led her in an approximate direction of where they came from, she clasped her hands together and tried to send a prayer to Aslan, but the words would not come.

It started to snow after awhile, and the snow was mixed with rain. Everything turned muddy and they had a miserable time trying to find their way. They tried huddling under a tree for shelter, but the wretched slush slid off the branches and fell in cold heaps onto their heads.

They stumbled through the dark, holding onto each other for support. The hilt of Susan's sword was digging into his side, but Edmund pressed himself as close as he could. It grew bitterly cold.

"Ugh!" Susan suddenly shrieked, her face twisted in disgust and anger. She had stepped in an especially muddy patch in the ground. In the gloom, she thought she saw something squirming, probably worms or slugs.

Edmund shuddered and kept a tighter hold on Susan. He started to walk away but his sister, in a sudden burst of ineffectual fury, turned and stamped her foot into the muddy puddle, sending up splashes of wet filth everywhere.

"Filthy, disgusting…!"

Quickly, he grabbed her about the waist and held her as tight as he could, familiar with her occasional dark rages. He held her, burying his face into her hair again, as she cursed and spat and swung her fists, her ugly words punctuated by dry sobs.

Strangely, he felt a certain twisted pleasure for being the only one she would truly break down in front of. She never lost herself in front of those she considered her betters or her equals because she refused to seem weak, and Peter, her own brother, was no exception. Lucy never witnessed one of Susan's uncontrolled outbursts, because she was the baby of the family and Susan wouldn't bring herself to frighten the little girl.

Only Edmund, somewhat sharing her prideful and sometimes destructive personality, ever heard the furious, despairing screams, muffled by abraded knuckles that were red because she'd hit the wall. Only he ever hid away the handkerchiefs and Lucy's little stockings, rent almost to shreds in Susan's rage, so he could try to mend them later.

After a struggle which made Edmund's arms grow numb and his ankle ache terribly, she sank halfway to the ground with a low moan. Still, he held her up, not letting her dip into the cold mud.

With the howling wind threatening to freeze them where they stood, they continued. The weather soon cleared, but the wetness on the trail froze so they could hardly move without slipping. Branches reached out, seeming with a mind of their own, and scratched at Susan's cheek, tore at her hair. It was almost impossible to see, but for the moonlight.

One misstep and Edmund fell, almost bringing Susan down with him. She grabbed onto a nearby tree branch to steady them both and scraped her hand on the rough edges of the bark. As she snatched it back with a hiss of pain, the ancient bough, stripped of most of its leaves during the winter months, creaked and released its burden of cold, wet slush.

All at once, the whole mess of it came tumbling down on their shoulders, soaking them through their clothes. Still bristling with anger from before, Susan drew a knife from her belt and made to hack away at the offending branch.

"Oh, don't!" Edmund cried, catching her arm. She glared at him, but allowed him to pull the blade away and sheath it.

"I'm sick of this forest," she hissed. "After years of living in the woods, all of it's as dirty and filthy as ever, only good for firewood." Angrily, she struck at the branch with her fist, breaking off some of the smaller twigs.

Later that night, they bivouacked under three close-growing trees when they grew too weary and hungry to keep walking. Susan bandaged Edmund's ankle with strips torn from her cloak and they huddled together, shivering as drops of icy water dropped on them from the branches above. But, at least they were out of the wind and Edmund was grateful for that. Within moments of laying his head on Susan's shoulder, he was asleep.

As her brother slumbered, Susan pressed chapped hands together and tried to silently call for Aslan again, willing another vision to come. But, her prayer died in her throat and the words just would not come. Aching and feeling miserable at everything around her, she tried to fall asleep.

She did not have any comforting dreams, though she thought feverishly of Aslan for a long time.

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Barely an hour later, she woke, cramped and cold. As Edmund snored lightly beside her, she stretched and stood, too uncomfortable to sleep. Stumbling slightly, she walked a bit ways off, blowing on numb fingers and shuddering against the wind.

The weather had cleared a while ago, but the cold had frozen all the slush on the ground. The grass, leaves, and tree branches all stuck out at rigid angles, glinting eerily in the moonlight and reflecting back sickly greens and browns. The moon hung, pale and bloated in the night sky, casting down its glow. Susan huffed, watching the white puff of breath swirl and dissipate. Everything looked like a frozen wasteland.

Her misery overwhelmed her, but she had no strength left to rage anymore. Silently, she cursed the woods for being so treacherous and bleak. More than anything, she wanted the sweet call from Aslan, a vision, a dream, _anything _to reassure her that He had not forgotten her.

"Susan?" murmured a sleepy voice from behind her.

She turned and saw Edmund stirring. He sat up and blinked at her, squinting in the dark. Even in her despair, she saw how his pale and freckled face, framed by dark hair, reminded her of the brief glances into a pond of water or a piece of glass. Unbidden, the memory of a little dark-haired boy sitting at her feet while she made a mess of sewing came back to her.

He stared at her with his dark eyes, then turned his head slowly as if looking all around her and through her. In the midst of all the bleakness, she thought he never looked more beautiful.

"Beautiful," he whispered, and the sound was carried to her over the shrill wind. She shivered.

"What'sbeautiful?" she asked.

"Everything," he replied dreamily, as if he hadn't quite awoken.

"_What?" _

"Look," he said, and gestured vaguely at trees. "It's all frozen solid. The frost came and they all froze, the grass and the trees. Like… like each leaf is of glass. But it's so much prettier than glass. The moonlight makes them shine all sorts of colors at once. See that willow over there? It looks like its weeping diamonds."

Susan turned and looked, but only saw a cold, dreary place, full of inky shadows and strange shapes. She shook her head, looking almost hopelessly back at him.

"Look," he said again, getting up. He walked over and took her cold hand in his. "See the grass? It's as if someone came and painted every blade with silver. See how they glint? Look at the trees! See how the wind blows about the branches? How every time the frozen leaves sway, they catch the moonlight and flash all sorts of colors? Green and white and pale yellow."

She looked hard at the trees and how they dipped and swayed, and for a moment forgot how biting the wind was and only saw how they twisted the branches gently to and fro. Indeed, the way Edmund described it, they didn't seem quite so dark and ugly. In fact, they quite looked as if they were dancing, their ice-bejeweled limbs waving with the rhythm of the breeze.

Her brother's hand felt soft and comforting in hers. Without quite realizing it, they had started walking so they were more out in the open, in a little clearing. The moonlight poured onto Susan's head and shoulders, dazzling her for a moment so that she had to squint.

"And there!" said Edmund, pointing with his free hand. "Look at that mossy rock. It was caked in snow before it froze. See how it glitters like a whole cluster of jewels!"

He panted, his breath coming out in white puffs. Susan drew him close and they didn't speak for a few minutes. It was utterly still except for the wind and Susan's occasional sigh that was quickly drowned out. Sometimes, the wind whistled shrilly through the leaves, tinkling the branches against each other like chimes. Sometimes, the sound was lower, like someone blowing a deep hunting horn.

The moonlight overhead shone through the clustered branches, making dappled pools of silver on the ground that shivered and rippled with the wind.

"Oh!" she gasped. Quite suddenly, everything in front of her changed yet it remained the same. The crooked shapes of the trees became graceful, the snow and ice seemed to glow, and even the cold mud on the ground added patches of color to the pale green and silver of the frozen tableau. "Beautiful," she whispered, as Edmund had.

How had everything changed? Only moments ago, she had been cursing the wretchedness of the world and now, she could not imagine anything so perfect or so beautiful as the wood before her. In a storybook, she once read of the fabled gems, taken alive from the depths of the earth, that Queen Susan once wore on her neck. Now, she thought that these legendary jewels, that were said to have glowed and breathed like living things, could not compare to the icicles that hung like crystals from the trees, shaped perfectly by the natural drip of water.

The moaning of the wind grew louder, and she sighed with it, pleased when it seemed to match the timbre of her voice. The icicle-laden boughs swayed, and it looked as if all of them were swaying to the same invisible song, the tinkling of frozen leaves sounding more like chimes every minute. Then, she realized at last that it was not the woods that had changed, but rather herself. They had become beautiful because she thought they were, and Edmund had seen it far earlier than she had.

Barely a minute after her epiphany, she gasped, starting when she realized that something was happening, and in fact had _been _happening for some time now. The trees were moving. At first she thought it was the wind moving them, but it seemed somehow too perfect and graceful a movement to be simply that.

She looked around, eyes darting from trunk to bough trying to decipher what was happening while not quite daring to hope. It was almost as if the forest was playing tricks on her. An tall walnut tree to her left bowed down, seeming of its own volition, and when it straightened again it almost resembled a solemn-looking old man with an incredibly knotty face. But, as she whirled around to look at it, it was just as stiff and wooden as any old tree.

Then, even as she stared intently at the walnut, she though she heard a trill of lovely laughter to her right and out of the corner of her eye, a pretty birch tree became a dancing maiden with silvery hair. But as Susan turned again to look at her, the birch went still and it was a wide oak tree to the further right this time that shifted into a rather heavyset lady with a kind face. It went on and on, until Susan was dizzy with turning and she could feel Edmund trembling against her, not out of fear but out of excitement and happiness.

"Oh, Susan, the trees!" he said breathlessly, clinging to her hand so hard it hurt. "The trees, the trees!"

And through it all, she felt His voice, a murmur so low it was a hum, deep and reverberating through the earth and the air.

She tried and tried to speak His name, and now she found that she could. She felt as if she had before been parched, and now was drinking cooling water. Her throat opened and she spoke, "Aslan!"

She could see the trees clearly now, as they moved around her like people in a dance and she felt such a joyous pain in her heart, that she had been so foolish to think that the place where Aslan's powers were the strongest was a physical placerather than a state of mind.

"Is it really you?" she whispered, as snatches of human speech intermingled with rustling leaves filled the air. "Please, please, I need to know."

Then, as if in answer, an unbidden warmth so great spread through her and tears filled her eyes, spilling over her cheeks in hot torrents. She uttered a wordless sob and felt a soaring joy, so great it almost staggered her. In the distance, coming close and closer, walking amongst the trees as if He were part of their dance, was Aslan at last.

She walked towards Him, arms outstretched.

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Sopespian wore his practiced air of pleasant arrogance as well as he wore his lace-trimmed leather doublet and fur-lined cape. At his feet lay his armor, stacked neatly and so polished Caspian could see his face in it.

A silken pavilion was erected around them, with two guards from each army posted outside while Caspian and Sopespian sat at opposite ends of a table. A flagon of wine sat nearby with two goblets but neither of them were drinking.

They were supposed to be meeting to speak of a truce, but Caspian was sitting silently in his cushioned chair while the Telmarine chancellor talked and talked, waving his hands and smiling charmingly. Caspian watched Sopespian, and saw with some smugness that despite the cheerfulness, that there were bruises beneath Sopespian's eyes and in the rare lulls of his speech, the man's eyes glinted with fear and weariness. He saw that when Sopespian wasn't waving his hands in exaggerated displays of genteelness, when the bejeweled rings weren't twinkling merrily, the man's hands shook and fidgeted.

It seems that Sopespian had bit off more than he could chew by murdering the Telmarine king and he was falling apart before Caspian's eyes, like a fine but old shirt unraveling at the seems. The remaining knights and Telmarine Lords must have been too much for Sopespian to handle.

"My Lord Chancellor," Caspian said quietly but firmly, interrupting Sopespian's raving about peace negotiations and graciously returning Caspian to the throne. He didn't believe a word of it, of course. From the moment he had first attended court, clinging to his mother's hand while the courtiers argued amongst themselves, the prince had known Sopespian enough to expect that the man's words were laced with lies as well as honey.

"If you truly wanted peace, you would have come to me sooner. It's only now, when you see that you don't quite have the support you thought you did, when you see that more and more of the Telmarine Lords are siding with the Narnians, that you offer a truce."

Caspian stood and took up his considerably shabbier cloak, fastening it about his shoulders.

"This meeting is over."

"Wait!" Sopespian cried, even reaching out with his hand as Caspian turned his back.

"They'll never accept your heathen marriage, you know!" the Chancellor called out to the retreating prince, desperate to gain the upper hand. "Even if you do win this war and become king, your countrymen will call your marriage illegitimate and your boy a whore!"

Caspian paid him no heed, though he itched to turn around and throttle the man.

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She stood in His presence once again. He stared at her with His golden eyes, solemn and so compassionate. Vaguely, she could hear and feel Edmund somewhere behind her, sometimes touching her hand and sometimes standing off to the side.

All around them, the trees twisted and danced to some deep, primal rhythm they heard through the earth. Some of them reached up with leafy arms and brushed off the slush and the ice from their limbs, casting them to the ground like one would discard trinkets they had worn, the night after a grand ball.

There was no longer any doubt now, that they were indeed people. Faces appeared from behind moist bark and curtains of leaves, all of them happy and fresh-looking. Each of them danced and smiled and laughed, bowing deep and reverently when they came near Aslan. Their rustling voices were full of joy.

And Susan felt small in the midst of them all, and she bowed her head in the face of Aslan's compassion. Yet, when she opened her mouth, she spoke His name as easily as she breathed.

"Aslan," she said. "Was I too late?"

"No," He replied. "You were distracted, but you figured it out at last, with the help of your brother. That's the important thing, that you're here now."

"And… and the horn?"

"A beautiful, priceless relic," He said, smiling kindly. "It had great power once, unimaginable power. But its time had passed long ago and now, it is within yourself that you must find an even greater power."

He breathed on her and she felt the whole wood melt a bit, shedding the layers of winter. The ice on the ground melted into moist earth and the fresh scent of it was intoxicating. She felt her feet sink into the earth, and stretched her arms high above her head like branches so that she was almost a tree herself.

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The ground shook as the Telmarine catapults hurled their stones. Caspian struggled to stay on his feet, sword in hand. All around him, his people surged forward again and again against the Telmarine army, though it was both Telmarines and Narnians fought together against Sopespian.

He was deafened by the crashing of rock and metal, stumbling with one gauntleted arm thrown up to protect his head. Bits of earth flew up into his face from where the stone struck the ground.

His ears ringing, Caspian groaned and pushed himself up. In the distance, he saw Peter in his blazing red tunic and shining armor. The blond was yelling something to the troops, his mouth flushed with battle-frenzy. Someone had knocked Peter's helmet off, and his straw-colored hair was in disarray. Caspian couldn't hear what Peter was saying; his ears wouldn't stop ringing.

A cry of anguish and terror was torn from Caspian's throat when he saw Peter suddenly double over, an arrow protruding from his side. He was bathed in the cold sweat of relief a second later, when Peter plucked the bolt from red fabric and chain mail, grimacing. It had only been a glancing wound; the wondrous armor had done its work.

Caspian stood watching, entranced by how Peter stooped down and scooped up his fallen helm, shoving it back on. A thrill of excitement heated his blood as Caspian watched Peter rally the troops to him, as Telmarine and Narnian alike rushed to his side without hesitation, as Peter then charged into the ranks of the enemy without a thought for his injury.

He could feel the blood pulsing violently in his wrists as he gripped his sword. Every stumble, every scratch that Peter received on the battlefield frightened him more than death to himself, and that terrified and exhilarated him all at once.

When the battle was over and won, Caspian tore through the camp looking for Peter, not even bothering to take off his armor. The lust for violence that still lingered from the battle, the fear, and unquenchable desire for his husband burned him from within, so much that Caspian raked his nails through his hair and down his face, certain he would die of this fire if he did not see his husband soon.

And there was Peter, dirty and exhausted, talking to Drinian. He hadn't bothered to remove his helmet yet and his shield hung limply in his hand by the strap.

Like arrow to target, Caspian stalked across the encampment. Peter's eyes went wide and he uttered an adorable gurgle of surprise when Caspian roughly grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. Carelessly, the prince drew off Peter's helmet and let it fall clattering to the ground. He grabbed Peter's scarred, perfect face in his hands and pressed their mouths together, not caring that the whole world saw.

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Time lost its meaning as Susan moved among the trees. The sinuous black limbs, twisting and turning, stretched high and blotted out the sky so the silvery pools of light on the forest floor could have been from the moon or the sun. She didn't know and didn't care how long it was since she had become engulfed in the woods. It might have been days, but she never felt hunger, thirst, or fatigue.

Branches touched her as she moved among them, fingers reached out to caress her hair, the bark of roots chafed her bare feet. Once, she thought she felt a prickly mouth kiss her cheek and heard light laughter, like the sound of bells.

She had long discarded her cloak and what little armor she had left. Her cruel sword and knives lay in the mud somewhere, along with her shoes. Her arms and feet were naked as she buried her feet into the earth with each step, walking without direction yet not aimlessly.

They touched her hair, running their leafy fingers through every strand. She held her arms out, running them through vines and leaves, grasping warm, living bark.

Branches pressed against her belly and her chest, and she felt such a keen, joyful pain inside of her lower belly that tears spilled down her cheeks once again. Everything was so _alive _around her and in that moment, she felt such _kinship _with the earth, the trees, the rain, and every last pebble on the ground. In that one moment, she felt the pain of generations past, the exploitation and ruin of the wood by the cruel and penetrating greed of the Telmarine kings, and knew it was the same cruelty that had haunted and debased her all her life. How she had loathed her womanhood at times! But now she understood, and she rejoiced and wept at the bond between herself and all the living things around her, flesh and bark and earth. She sighed and it seemed the wood sighed with her, moved with her.

There was a wild, beautiful music playing though she could see no instruments or musicians. It was as if the earth itself was humming, and the wind and the dew and the trees were all singing along, lulling Susan into a waking dream. And all the while, _He _was there, though she couldn't really see him, but she somehow knew He was there watching over her.

She gasped quietly when she realized the trees were parting now. Slowly, they shifted further apart, yet still close enough to her that they touched her. The boughs overhead bent back and a shaft of the most beautiful sunlight she had ever seen struck the ground and set the clearing ablaze in color.

A small stream glittered in the sun, and the blue of the sky was so bright it almost blinded her. The delicious scent of the fresh, damp earth and the sweetness of spring flowers made her dizzy. She could see them all so clearly now, the walking trees, and they all looked so much lovelier and friendlier in daylight.

"Susan," someone said next to her, and she whirled around to see Edmund at her side. His face was dirty but he was smiling and glowing with a vitality she hadn't seen for years. She laughed and rumpled his curls, incredibly grateful that her brother was there with her, to share such a moment of happiness with her.

"Come, Susan," said Aslan, from the other side of the stream, and she went to Him, splashing through the cool water. She knelt before him and felt all her fears and doubts slip away, like water rolling of a blade of grass.

He touched His golden mouth to her face and breathed on her again. All around her, the trees bowed to her, their leafy crowns almost touching the ground.

"Do you see how they love you?" said Aslan.

"Yes," she breathed, "and I love them with all my heart."

"Then, you are ready," He said, and opened His maw in a joyous laugh. "Rise now, Susan, as a prince of Narnia! That title is forever and rightfully yours, as long as you are willing to bear it. And remember, never forget their love for you."

She rose on shaky feet and smiled and smiled, her heart soaring not with pride, but with love.

A slender girl with vines for hair stepped forward from the trees and set a wreath of golden flowers on Susan's head. She laughed and twirled and kissed Susan's cheeks before melting back into the throng. Then, a dark evergreen came forward and bowed deeply to Susan.

Susan peered at its leaf-covered face but couldn't tell if it was male or female. Perhaps it was neither, or both.

The Evergreen then did something very odd. It pressed its arms (or were they still branches?) against its trunk and pushed so that its middle swelled, split, and opened. As if birthing a child from a womb, the Evergreen reached deep into itself and drew out an ebony bow, so dark and beautiful that Susan was sure there was nothing like it in the whole world.

With both arms, it presented the gift to Susan, and she took it reverently, marveling at its beauty. It was perfectly suited to her, and felt warm and alive, and she knew that any arrow she fitted to this bow would not miss.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"And now," cried Aslan, standing tall and shaking His mane, "Come, Walking Trees! Come, Queen Susan! King Peter awaits our aid."

With these words, Aslan threw His head back and roared so loudly, Susan thought the world had split in two.

Her heart pounded in her chest and for once, the excitement of battle was not born out of hatred. The trees shook and clamored about her, shaking so hard the rustling of their leaves echoed deep in the forest. With a crouch and a leap, the Lion fairly _threw _Himself forward, running so fast He was a golden blur.

"Go!" Susan cried, laughing with sheer exhilaration. She threw her arm out, straight as an arrow, towards where Aslan had taken chase. As one, the trees bent and twisted towards where she pointed, before pulling their roots from the earth with a great rumble. Like an army of leafy giants, the trees charged in that direction, wading through the earth like it was water.

Laughing again, Susan dove into their midst and ran with them, loving the feel of her unbound hair whipping in the wind and her bare feet over the ground.

Edmund, a bit frightened by the tall trees all rushing together at once, tried to hobble after Susan on his crutch, but she was as fast as a gazelle. Yet he was not left behind: one of the tree people caught him up in its branches and carried him along, so Edmund found himself moving quite swiftly with everyone else.

Susan paused to snatch up her quiver, but left her armor and all the heavy trappings she wore before. The crown of golden flowers flew off her head as she took off again.

On and on they charged, over hill and field and Susan never seemed to get tired or out of breath.

It was the roar of upturned earth and a hundred walking trees that turned the heads of every soldier who were battling that day, near Beruna. Susan picked out Peter's blond hair in the midst of the armor-clad bodies, saw turn him turn and stare, astonished. Then, he smiled and raised his sword to her and yelled out in triumph, a yell that was followed by all the Narnians and even some of the Telmarines on their side.

The cries went silent and everyone looked on in awe when Aslan came forward, so fierce, terrible, and magnificent that even Sopespian and his men were stunned. He threw back His golden mane and roared so loudly it seemed He shook the very foundations of the world.

Their enemies turned pale and shrieked in fear as the entire forest came bearing down on them, the trees' roots reaching up and tearing apart the catapults and trebuchets. With renewed vigor, the Narnians fought even more fiercely than before.

And among the infantry, Caspian charged forward with the rest of his men, raising his sword and fighting for all he was worth. He saw Sopespian, horseless, and ran towards the Telmarine traitor. He shouted a challenge, which the Lord Chancellor met, quivering and blanching.

Armed with fury, Caspian slammed his sword against his enemy's and Sopespian quailed under the prince's attacks. Blow after blow was exchanged, and both of them knew that Sopespian had no chance of winning; he could never match the prince in skill or fervor.

One thrust, and the traitor fell at Caspian's feet. The prince stared into those dark, dying eyes and felt the painful satisfaction that he had avenged Miraz on Sopespian, though he hated both of them.

All around him, people were cheering and Caspian turned breathlessly to see that the battle was won. They were shouting his name and raising their weapons high in the air, and Caspian broke out in a tremulous smile. He couldn't believe it. Finally, _finally_, the war was won.

He looked around frantically for the one he wished to see most, and there was Peter, heading towards him, beaming. There were no words to express how happy they were, so they embraced and all was said with a simple kiss.

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Caspian had trembled and knelt before Aslan, feeling for certain that he was unworthy, but the Lion breathed on him and bade him look up. When Caspian gazed into those golden eyes, he was filled with warmth and strength. Aslan had deemed him worthy to be king, and that was enough to dispel any doubt.

After the wounded were taken care of, the surviving Telmarines surrendered and gave up their weapons. They were led to a nearby town to be kept under surveillance and given adequate provisions. Though, Caspian had a suspicion that had Aslan not been there, the Narnians may not have been so forgiving.

Before Aslan, Peter took Rhindon and knighted Caspian as the crowd cheered. When Caspian rose, a knight and a rightful Prince of Narnia, he in turn knighted Rynelf, Trumpkin, Glenstorm, and all those who had been bravest and dearest to him. As for the Telmarines who had fought on their side, they all received Aslan's blessing, though it was the bravest of them that did not tremble in His face.

Then, the long-awaited celebration began. Every man, woman, child, beast, and soldier felt that _this _was the moment that they had been waiting for, all their lives, the celebration of peace.

The trees offered up pieces of their bodies that turned to brushwood when they touched the ground. A great bonfire was built and the bright orange flames seemed the very embodiment of everyone's joy. The dryads and hamadryads began a wild, beautiful dance and the fauns and satyrs accompanied them with their flutes and lyres.

Food and great quantities of wine and ale were provided: large sides of roasted meat, all manner of shining fruits, grains made into cakes and porridges, and a mountain of colorful confections. People laughed, danced, cried, drank, and savored every breath of their newfound freedom, drinking in all they could of this wondrous moment.

The Talking Beasts all gathered reverently around Aslan, touching him. Some of the humans and dwarves were still frightened by Him, whom they had only heard of in legend and myth, but the beasts knew Aslan as their King and loved Him. Lucy spent the time sitting quietly and happily by the Lion, and they smiled at each other as if they were old friends.

As Caspian sat by the fire, a cup of warm cider in his hand, he thought he had never felt so content in his life. He was happy, but in a subdued sort of way, one that didn't require him to laugh or dance or make merry. Still, he smiled as he watched Peter talking and laughing animatedly all their friends, occasionally embracing with someone, cheeks aglow from just a touch too much of wine.

He smiled even wider at the odd sight of Susan, barefoot and hair loose, laughing while a smiling Rynelf hugged her waist from behind. She held a goblet of wine in her hand and it was spilling, but she didn't seem to care.

Edmund came to sit next to Caspian, and the prince was glad that the boy seemed now to want to be friends.

"I'm happy for her," Edmund said, sounding relieved and terribly wistful. "I… I'm happy that she's happy. I didn't know quite _what _she'd be like when it all ended, and I'm glad she's… found herself." Caspian saw that Edmund was looking intently at Rynelf, with something close to hostility.

"Susan," Caspian said, standing, when he saw her stumble drunkenly for the third time. Rynelf held her up gently by the arm, gazing at her with moonstruck adoration. She murmured something into Rynelf's ear and they both laughed, he blushing deeply.

"Susan, I think maybe you've had enough. Maybe you should retire…"

Suddenly, she whirled around and turned on him fiercely, eyes blazing in that familiar way. "Don't tell me what to do," she said huskily, slurring a bit and jabbing Caspian in the chest with her finger. "Why, haven't you heard? I'm a _prince _now, just as you are."

Her voice lowered into a hiss and Caspian almost took a step back.

"You can't command me, Caspian. You have _never _commanded me."

She laughed then, and turned to throw herself into Rynelf's arms. "Take me away," Caspian heard her whisper breathlessly, and Rynelf, looking more and more moonstruck by the second, obeyed. Her giggling was eaten up by the night as they went into the throng. Her fair limbs, carelessly naked, were thrown around the handsome soldier's neck when they disappeared deeper into the forest.

Caspian felt his face grow hot as he realized what they were probably doing, and whether he ought to stop them. It was none of his business, really; but still, he had come to think of her as a sister…

Behind him, Edmund scowled, stood, and walked away.

"Caspian," someone called, so sweetly and quietly it was like a whisper across his skin. He turned around and saw Peter standing a bit ways off, at the edge of the wood. His husband was flushed and beautiful and smiling beguilingly at him.

Slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Caspians', Peter pulled at the laces to his shirt, opening the knots and tugging the cloth down to expose the skin beneath. He turned and walked towards the woods, looking meaningfully over his shoulder at Caspian, who gulped and forgot all about Susan's precious virtue.

Walking quickly to catch up, Caspian reached Peter just as they passed relatively out of sight from the others. He grabbed Peter's hand and pressed up against the Narnian, nuzzling into his neck, but Peter suddenly laughed and darted away in a fit of mischief.

"Wait!" Caspian cried, laughing as well. As Peter ran deeper into the forest, the prince gave chase.

The trees creaked and twisted as Caspian passed them. It was dark and he squinted to see the whiteness of Peter's clothes, a hint of yellow hair.

"You'll have to catch me!" Peter cried from somewhere to his left, and the merriment in his voice echoed through the woods. Caspian darted after him, arm stretched out to grasp the fabric of Peter's shirt. His fingers closed around a sleeve, but when he pulled back, the shirt was hanging limp in his hand and his husband had slipped away again, like a dream.

"Where are you?" Caspian called, and his response was a husky murmur to his right.

He felt like a hunter, and the fauns' eerily beautiful music from the campfire spurred him on like a horn while Peter was the deer, except that Peter wanted to be caught and ravished.

He saw a flash of fair skin, naked and bathed in the light of the distant campfire, and he dashed madly towards his prey. The light laughter teased him and set him mad with the desire to _touch_, to grasp, to kiss and taste. He dashed around trees, over bushes and shrubs, but his quarry remained _just _out of reach.

Then, as if on purpose, a vine stretched out directly in Peter's path and his laughter was cut off sharply as he went sprawling onto the soft earth, ending the playful seduction. He wasn't hurt, of course; the forest was kind to him. A second later, Caspian fell on top of him, panting.

The prince chuckled breathlessly before cupping Peter's face and kissing him deeply. He felt Peter moan and sigh beneath him, arching upwards in pleasure. Peter reached between them and deftly untied Caspian's trousers, making the prince gasp.

"Wait!" Caspian said. "Won't someone see?"

Peter giggled in response and gently pushed Caspian off. He sat up and grabbed handfuls of leafy fern, drawing them about them both like bed curtains.

"There, Sir Bashful."

Slowly, Peter undressed himself in front of Caspian, running his hands seductively down his own torso, his hips. Peter was hauntingly beautiful in the moonlight, with the shadows of leaves on his face and starlight in his eyes. Caspian smiled, loving the way Peter bit his lower lip, eyes fluttering in anticipation.

Gently, the prince leaned close and batted away some of the greenery. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to a naked shoulder. He felt Peter shiver as he ran slow fingers down the pale chest and belly. He touched a thigh next, then bent to kiss that as well.

He lay Peter down and savored every sigh of pleasure, every moan, as he slid his hands over smooth skin, kissing wherever he touched. Impatiently, Peter pulled at Caspian's clothes and arched up into him, demanding more than kisses, and Caspian was all too keen to comply.

Caspian brushed a cheekbone with his fingers and then pressed them to Peter's lips. Eagerly, Peter kissed them and sucked them into his mouth, wetting them, then taking them and then guiding them down between his legs. He cried out sharply as Caspian entered him with moist fingers, arching off the ground and grabbing fistfuls of Caspian's shirt.

When he lay just as naked as Peter and Peter's leg was wrapped around his waist while the Narnian writhed and moaned so sweetly with each thrust, Caspian thought that before this night, they had never made love with such leisure, such abandon. All the pain they had gone through together and apart, the loneliness, the anger, the desperation, all of it was healed that night, on a bed of warm earth and under the twinkling stars. Every wound, every scar, was mended by the sweetness of their kisses, their tender lovemaking.

"Are you alright?" Caspian asked worriedly, when they were both panting in the afterglow and he realized Peter's cheeks were wet with tears.

"Y-yes," Peter whispered back, touching Caspian's face as if trying to memorize it. "I'm just so happy."

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The next morning, Caspian woke Peter with a kiss and they smiled, greeting each other with light touches and whispered words of love. It was a chilly day, and they were quick to dress and get back to the others. There was warm porridge and honey for breakfast and someone even managed to produce tea. Peter and Caspian sat together, cuddling against each other and smiling over their meal, watching people slowly awake from where they had fallen asleep during the festivities last night.

Sometime during breakfast, Susan came to join them and Peter noticed that her hair was rumpled and she had a rather sick, unhappy look on her face. Rynelf appeared shortly afterwards, adjusting his clothes, but Susan stiffened and refused to acknowledge him. Clutching her mug tightly, she wouldn't even look at him when he hesitantly called her name. Looking a bit hurt, Rynelf left and Peter didn't see him again for the rest of the morning.

He had other things to occupy his mind, though, for that day, Aslan sent out swift-footed messengers all through the land, to proclaim to Narnian and Telmarine alike that Sir Caspian was now the rightful king, and from henceforth, the land would belong equally to Narnians, Talking Beasts, Dwarves, Dryads, and all other creatures. The Telmarines who wished to stay and live in peace were welcome to, but for those who would not, they were to gather and meet with Aslan in five days, and He would provide them with another home.

Then, Aslan and the whole victorious company set out on a march to the capital city, so that Caspian could reclaim his home and throne, with Peter and Susan by his side. The musicians among them took up their flutes again and everyone was singing along as they walked.

It was past midday when they finally reached the city gates. The townspeople had, of course, already heard of Caspian's victory and most of them were out in the streets, cheering and throwing flowers into the victors' paths, as the common people had no love for either Miraz or Sopespian.

Caspian proudly led the procession through the streets, walking and not riding, so that he could grasp the hands of his people and look them in the eye as they cheered for him. Peter walked beside him nervously, not sure how the Telmarines would take to the idea that he was Caspian's husband. He shied away at first, but Caspian firmly grasped his arm and held him close so that there was no doubt of their relationship, and if there was any discontent from the Telmarines, it was drowned out by the Narnians' joyous cries of "Long live the true kings and queen of Narnia!"

It was when they reached the castle when trouble broke out. A few renegade Telmarine soldiers and guards attempted to make a last stand in the main courtyard.

"Miraz was our true king and we will have no other!" one of them cried, and they attacked the party with swords and lances. Even as Caspian grabbed Peter and tried to push him behind the safety of the marble fountain, he could tell the battle would be short-lived. Within minutes, the Narnians defeated the Telmarines dissenters and had them either restrained or killed. But, it was this brief spurt of violence that had them all in a frenzy. And so instead of entering the castle in solemn victory, the Narnians stormed the place, shouting and banging their weapons in revenge for all their past pains.

"Peter," Aslan called, quietly but urgently. "They mean to kill the heir."

Suddenly, Peter realized what He meant, and dashed through the courtyard, into the castle with the throng before Caspian could ask what was going on.

His heart in his throat, Peter tore through the familiar halls and up the stairs to the royal nursery. He the angry cries of the Narnian mob long before he even got there.

"Kill the brat!" some of the shouted. "Miraz will never be dead as long as his blood survives. Kill them all! No one shall be spared!"

Peter elbowed and shoved his way through the crowd, keeping a tight hold on his sword and hoping against all hope he wouldn't have to use it. Two young, frightened guards were holding off the mob at the nursery while Prunaprismia cowered inside with her arms over her head and the nursemaid threw herself before the crib. The baby was wailing and Peter's heart clenched at the tiny sobs.

"Stop! Stop!" he shouted as loudly as he could, firmly placing himself between the two guards and the furious Narnians. He held up Rhindon, still sheathed, so they could see the Lion's head on the hilt. "None of you will harm them. Stop this at once."

The crowd protested, and Peter felt anguished to see that Gilbert was part of the mob.

"But Peter, it's _Miraz's _son!" cried the boy, shaking a fist in the crib's general direction and spitting out the late king's voice as if it were a curse.

"He is just a baby," said Peter. "Who has he ever harmed? You will not touch him or his mother, for they are both under my protection. Haven't enough innocent lives been lost?"

He stared them down so forcefully that they relented at last, and left, one by one. He heard the guards behind him sigh with relief and turned to see the nursemaid still crouched over the baby's crib, tears running down her cheeks.

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After the Narnian mob had disassembled, lodgings and food had to be provided for those who were staying, as well as preparations for the coronation the next day. The dwarves had taken over the local smithy for a day, working gold, silver, and jewels into crowns. Dr. Cornelius, now made Lord Chancellor, saw to official matters such as the royal treasury and court records. Nearly everyone was busy, running around with some task or other.

Yet, Peter isolated himself in prince Rilian's nursery, as the nurse had fled to her home shortly after the attack, and Prunaprismia was in no condition to take care of anyone. So, he found himself once again the caretaker of the small, gurgling baby boy.

"Oh, what am I going to do with you?" Peter sighed, not for the first time that day as he leaned over the crib. He played with the lace on Rilian's little nightgown, smiling sadly when the baby kicked sock-covered feet in the air. The windows of the nursery had been boarded shut, probably by one of the guards in a haphazard attempt to protect the king's heir, once they had learned of Miraz's defeat. Peter had lit candles instead of trying to pry the boards open, and the air was sweet with the smell of beeswax.

He found himself singing softly to the baby about the nightingale again, wondering what on earth was to become of Rilian, now that the little prince's home were full of people that mostly despised him. Poor little boy, growing up without a father and in a strange household.

A sound behind him startled Peter and he jumped a little, turning quickly to see Caspian at the door. He froze when he saw a sword strapped to his husband's side and the dark look on his face.

"So," said Caspian, stepping into Peter's little sanctuary. "This is the son of my father's murderer."

A heavy silence settled in the room. Even the baby had stopped fidgeting. Peter instinctively placed himself in front of the crib, spreading his arms wide and gripping the wooden bars.

"I heard you protected him from the mob," Caspian continued, coming closer. "Well? Won't you let me see my dear, little cousin?"

There was a cold, sardonic bite to his husband's voice and Peter gulped, not moving.

"Peter," Caspian said, almost warningly. With a little force, he nudged Peter aside and slowly reached into the crib. Caspian picked the baby up and held it in his arms, looking coldly down at the pouting face. There was no warmth in the embrace, no happiness at seeing the innocent dark eyes peering up at him.

"His name is Rilian," Peter said, hands still gripping the wooden frame of the crib. "Rilian." He repeated the name, hoping Caspian would see the baby as a person, and not just Miraz's offspring. But, the handsome face showed no emotion as Caspian set the baby down again, leaving Peter to straighten out the blankets.

"I heard you declared that he was under your protection," Caspian said, almost accusingly. Peter nodded shakily in response.

Another tense moment passed before Caspian turned to leave, saying nothing.

"Caspian," Peter called out, just as his husband reached the nursery door. "Please… promise me you won't blame the child."

Caspian paused and looked long and hard at Peter's pleading face, then turned sharply away.

"I can't promise you that," he said coldly, before leaving. The door of the nursery snapped shut with an awful sound that echoed off the bare walls, and the baby began to whimper.

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Notes: Thanks so much for reading! I hope people are still following this story, lol, even after I abandoned it for so long. I'm really sorry for the long wait. Please, please feedback! ^_^


	33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

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Chapter 33:

Everyone in the kingdom, no matter where their allegiances lay, found themselves caught up in a torrent of excitement in the following week. Like a storm, the Narnians had entered the capital city and marched through every street, shouting news of their victory, hanging their garlands and banners, and throwing colored wafers and petals as if they would drive out every last taint of Miraz's former rule.

And whether distressed, furious, or delighted at the Narnians' victory, everyone was dazzled by _them_: Caspian, Peter, and Susan, the three young champions returning from war. They were young, beautiful, powerful, and so _new _and odd that everyone was enchanted by them. Throngs of people gathered in the streets to watch them strut their way into the heart of the city, some even so bold as to reach out and touch the prince's cloak or the hem of Susan's dress. People loved them or hated them, but all were intoxicated by their exoticness, their boldness, and their beauty, and swarms of people were drawn to them like flies to honey.

Within a day of their victory, they had arrived and thrown open the castle gates, letting in such a flood of color and noise that the walls trembled under the onslaught. Doors and curtains were thrown open, revealing the dusky treasures the king had kept locked away. For the first time, there were Narnian hands that stroked the richly woven tapestries in the halls, Narnian fingers that touched the gold nails in the furniture, the windows of stained glass, the perfumed cloths and cushions that adorned every chair, the shining fruits that hung from the trees in the orchards. Narnian voices echoed off the stone walls, breaching the castle's mysterious Telmarine gloom.

If Peter ever shuddered at the dark memories the place invoked, he did not let anyone see. At night, Caspian's hand was hot against his naked belly, and that was enough to dispel the memories of what once happened in a bed not far from their new chambers.

And if Susan ever felt staggered by such luxury and majesty, she never expressed it. The Telmarines had expected her to plunder Prunaprismia's closets for dresses and jewels, as a victorious queen would, but instead, she went about the castle in chain mail and a polished breastplate as if reminding everyone, especially the Telmarines, of the war by which she won her power. Men and women of the court turned to stare and gossip when she passed and all sorts of fantastic stories were made up about her being bloodthirsty and cruel. However, Susan seemed to revel in this attention, stepping into Purnaprismia's position as a queen and as a spectacle.

Miraz's brutally regulated court was turned on its head for the next few days as centaurs, fauns, satyrs, dwarves, and all manner of Talking Beasts were invited in. The well-dressed Telmarine courtiers fairly shook in their velvet cloaks when the throne room was filled with all sorts creatures, the centaurs stamping the marble floors with their hooves and the bears growling and sprawling in the fine chairs. People sat anywhere and everywhere and talked as they liked while the newly appointed monarchs greeted almost everyone as their friends.

The foundations of tradition were torn down, ripped apart, and the whole kingdom seemed to ring with praise and glory for these _beautiful, young people_. Telmarines nobles that had not fought in the war fawned and flattered and kissed Caspian's hand, declaring that they would always be loyal. They even deigned to acknowledge Susan and Peter, gritting their teeth behind their smiles. One of the younger ones gifted Susan with a velvet pouch of pearls. Yet, he flinched at her cool, haughty smile, dropped the bag, then stumbled over himself picking it up and thrusting it at her again, mumbling an apology.

Overall, the Narnians had little attention for these kinds of politics. A coronation was to take place soon and everyone was busy and excited. From all over the kingdom, flowers, fabrics, and spices were brought to the capital. Great quantities of food and wine were procured for a feast.

Susan had the bag of pearls made into a collar and ordered more jewels for earrings, rings, bracelets, clasps, broaches, and more loose gems to adorn her cloaks and hats. There were yards of linen and silk brought in to be sewn into gowns and the seamstresses were busy night and day to get them ready for the coronation. She let them measure her waist, bust, and hips with quiet dignity, secretly marveling that she now owned such fine things.

But it was Lucy's enthusiasm that far surpassed her sister's or anyone else's. From the moment she was introduced to courtly life, she acted like a little princess, capricious, lively, and utterly happy. She demanded a wardrobe to match Susan's. Gowns, linens, lace, embroidered gloves and skirts, hats, feathers, fur-lined cloaks, velvet capes with jeweled clasps, and silken handkerchiefs were made for her so she could dress and twirl and dance in front of her mirrors and feel like a real princess. Prunaprismia's ladies-in-waiting, now Lucy's, took great pleasure in dressing her up like a doll, much preferring to serve this happy little princess than the querulous Telmarine queen.

She wanted to ride horses, learn archery, and swim in the man-made pools. She charmed the stable master into taking her by the hand and letting her pick from Miraz's own beasts, and she chose the fiercest stallion there and demanded to ride him. She wanted to learn to read and cajoled Dr. Cornelius into teaching her the alphabet, clambering all over the royal library afterwards to pick out books and attempting to decipher them. She wanted the blacksmith to make her an embossed breastplate and mail shirt, so she could wear them like Susan did. She wanted her ears pierced and whimpered all the while it was being done, but dried her tears and laughed when she saw her new pearl earrings in the mirror.

Lucy took to court like a duck to water, chattering with just about everyone there, twirling round and round to show off her embroidered skirts. She giggled and blushed when the Telmarine courtiers bowed their heads to her and called her "madam," and would always thrust her hand out to be kissed. In what she thought was a subtle way, she dropped lacy handkerchiefs and silk ribbons at their feet, laughing for joy when they bent to pick up her brightly colored scraps and offered them back to her with a flourish and a bow. To her young eyes, these handsome, well-dressed men bore no resemblance to the cruel and sneering soldiers who once plundered her home and killed her father.

She wanted flowers and candies and always more jewelry. She wanted to learn to dance the courtly dances and sing songs. She demanded that someone teach her to play the lute, the virginals, the viol, the harp, and the recorder. If there were musicians at mealtimes, she always badgered them to play her favorite songs.

When she went out among the people, usually chaperoned by Peter or her ladies in waiting, she ripped seed pearl from her caps or her skirts and threw them to the poor children in generous handfuls, so that she always had a little gaggle of followers that called after her, "Princess Lucy! Long live Princess Lucy!" If she ever missed the poor little Narnian village she grew up in, she never showed it.

Peter himself often went out into the city, to ride through the streets on his new white mare. The common people, both Narnian and Telmarine, loved him and would gather in the streets to watch him pass. They often cheered his name and he would smile sweetly at the crowd, taking his hand away from the reins to wave. Sometimes, he would turn his left cheek inward, as if hiding the scar there in the shoulder of his doublet.

On the fourth day of the Narnian victory, Peter rode out as usual. The sun was bright and the merchants were selling heaps of vegetable and fruit that gleamed with color. They offered him sweet oranges and some of the bolder girls pressed bundles of flowers into his hands, blushing when he smiled and thanked them. The clopping of his horse's hooves was pleasant to hear and the sun was warm on his face.

"Whore!" someone yelled from the crowd, drawing gasps from the people in the street. Peter paled and clutched at his saddle so hard his knuckles turned white, but he didn't turn around.

"Ride on," he called to Rynelf, who was riding beside him, acting as escort and guard.

"Whore!" the man called again. "The king's Narnian whore!"

Peter twisted in his saddle to glare into the crowd, but everyone was turning his or her head, looking around for the stranger who dared insult him. He heard a ring of metal and saw that Rynelf had angrily drawn his sword.

"No!" Peter said firmly, reaching over to lay a hand on Rynelf's wrist. "Ride on," he repeated, and kicked his horse's sides. He forced a smile.

They returned to the palace stables at a gallop and when Peter dismounted, he was trembling.

"It's nothing," Peter said, when Rynelf touched his shoulder in concern. "It doesn't matter."

"The man must've been mad!" Rynelf raged, face flushing in anger. "You are married to King Caspian and a king in your own right. How dare he-"

"It's alright," Peter said, laughing a bit and shaking his head. "After all, there are worse things to be than Miraz's whore."

"M-Miraz?" Rynelf stammered, and Peter's words froze in his throat when he realized what he had just said.

The Narnian ran a sweaty hand through his hair and cleared his throat once or twice, red-faced. Rynelf was pale and looked a bit sick, but Peter didn't know what else to say, so he simply handed the reins over to the eager stable boy and turned to leave.

That night, he made love to Caspian roughly, pressing his husband's wrists into the sheets and biting at exposed skin.

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On the fifth day, true to His word, Aslan hosted a great gathering at the town of Beruna. Caspian, Peter and his family, and many other Narnians came down from the capital city, but most of the audience was made up of Telmarines. Though many of them had been suspicious of Aslan's offer to find them a new home, nearly all had turned up.

Most of them were stunned by the sight of Prince Caspian and the four Pevensies, dressed as they were in rich, bright fabrics and shiny chain mail with jewel-hilted swords and daggers strapped to their waists. The last the Telmarines had seen them was on the battlefield and both Peter and Caspian had been weary and filthy. Seeing them now, well dressed like the kings they were, simply dazzled their former enemies beyond belief.

But it was Aslan, in all His golden glory, that humbled and stunned them the most. While the Narnians stood by, Aslan declared to the crowd that He would send those who wished to leave to the land of their ancestors. A portal was made with two stakes in the ground, and a third bound to the tops to form a doorway. Amidst much indignant and confused muttering, Aslan told everyone that the Telmarines had originally descended from seafaring brigands from another world, and that He would send them back through the magic portal.

There was much hesitation and more mutterings, but the first Telmarine that accepted the offer stepped up went without fear. Aslan breathed on him, granting him good fortune in the new world, and the people gasped when they saw him disappear through the portal.

After the initial shock of seeing a man vanish into thin air, more of the Telmarines followed until they were lined up to go, one by one, to seek their fortunes in a new land. When Prunaprismia stepped up, stiff and white-faced, Peter took the baby Rilian from a nearby nurse's arms and approached her.

"Your son," said Peter, bowing his head as if she were still queen. He held out the child, who was wrapped in maroon velvet. He made as if to put Rilian into her arms, but looked as if he was pained to see the baby taken away.

Without saying a word, Prunaprismia gently kissed her son on his smooth forehead and then stepped back, leaving the infant prince with Peter. She shook her head and smiled sadly, then motioned towards the waiting portal as if to signify that she would go alone.

"But, Your Majesty, he is your son!" cried Peter.

Pale lips parted and she whispered so quietly it was like the wind blowing over withered grass, "You will take better care of him than I ever could." She reached out an elegant hand and touched his arm. Almost tenderly, she gave him a little squeeze and another weary smile. Then, she was gone.

Peter realized he had been holding his breath and let it out in a relieved sigh. He felt a strange elation in his heart as he hugged the child close, burying his face into the velvet wrappings and inhaling the fresh baby smell.

Quickly, he stole a glance at Caspian and saw that while his husband didn't exactly seem pleased, he didn't look hostile either. In a resigned manner, Caspian gave a little nod and then looked away.

The last person to step up to the portal was a familiar face, tired and wounded from battle though it was.

"General Glozelle," Caspian called out, and grasped the man's arm as he passed. He looked into the eyes of his old friend, the man who had once trained him to ride, fight, shoot, and so much more, and felt his heart aching at the thought that Glozelle would leave.

"Just because we fought on different sides doesn't mean I ever forgot your friendship," Caspian said, his voice cracking a bit. "You are a good man, a loyal man. If you stayed, I would make you sure you had a place in my court, a position of honor."

But the general simply shook his head. He held on to Caspian's arm tightly for a moment, then moved to go.

"Wait!" Caspian called again, with almost childlike desperation. He ran after the man and held on to both of Glozelle's broad shoulders, looking deep into the general's eyes. "You have been with me since I was born. When my father died, you were the one who first put a sword in my hand and taught me to use it. You were the one who pushed me back up when I fell off my horse. I… I realize now that you were more of a guardian than Miraz ever was. And now I am to be king, but I cannot imagine ruling without you by my side."

Glozelle looked at him solemnly, then took Caspian's face in gentle, callused hands.

"My prince," he said hoarsely, as if he were parched, "you will be great king, with or without me. I confess that I will miss you, just as I have missed your father. But the crimes I have committed are too great to be pardoned in this world, even by you. For the sake of my selfish conscience, I must leave you."

Glozelle lowered his lips to the prince's forehead in a reverent kiss, drawing a few scandalized gasps from those who were watching.

"And all I would ask," whispered the general, "is that you remember me as a friend."

And he left, bringing with him the last of Caspian's old life, disappearing through the portal and sweeping away the memories like wind sweeps away dry leaves. But Peter's warm hand in his took away the pain of losing so noble a man.

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On the morning of her coronation, Susan took a bath in a huge marble tureen that cloaked the whole room in steam with all the hot water. Her handmaiden (a Narnian girl about Lucy's age, since Susan didn't trust any of the Telmarine ladies) dried her with scented towels, _nice _ones that didn't chafe. The girl rubbed warm oil onto Susan's skin so it wouldn't go chapped, then sprinkled perfume under her arms and in her hair. She was then covered in snow white linens and what felt like miles of white silk. Her dark hair was combed out, her fingernails polished, her face gently dusted with powder.

She felt awkward and exhilarated at the same time. As her maid busied about, mixing face paints and rummaging through jewel-boxes, Susan stroked her fingers down the length of her skirt, marveling at the softness of it, the _finery_. How could it be that all of it, the silks, the perfumed bed sheets, the goblets, the feathers, the good candles, the golden plates, and the sweet, sweet fruits were hers? It felt like a dream and Susan clutched at the cloth in her lap, as if afraid it would all melt away.

When Susan stepped out from her bathing chamber and into the joint living area that she shared with Lucy, she found her apartment in a joyful uproar of female chatter. In the center of the room, like a dancer on a stage, was Lucy. The girl was surrounded by her cooing ladies-in-waiting, beaming and giggling as they painted her face, curled her bangs, and pasted tiny jewels onto her fingernails, and she commanded them all with royal exuberance.

"Susan!" Lucy squealed upon seeing her, and Susan felt a pang of both affection and jealousy as she saw the little princess, young and rosy-cheeked and so prettily happy that Susan actually felt out of place in her own rooms. She sat down on a nearby chair and watched her sister turn and smile, as happy as if there hadn't just been a war, as if all the shiny things around them hadn't been paid for in blood.

"That one!" Lucy commanded, pointing at a shelf of glittering coronets. One of her ladies picked up the selection and placed it on top of the girl's chestnut curls, a delicate-looking silver thing, laden with pearls. Vaguely, Susan wondered which raven-haired Telmarine princess the coronet once belonged to, and whether she would have been angry that the pretty thing now adorned the head of a Narnian.

Just then, Peter burst through the doors unannounced, looking half dressed. His cheeks were pink and his eyes sparkled with excitement. He greeted both sisters breathlessly and kissed Susan on both cheeks, laughing with nervous joy. He hugged Lucy and spun her around, billowing silk gown and all, and kissed her bejeweled fingernails. He called her his "little princesa," ruffled her carefully groomed hair, much to the dismay of her ladies, and swept out just as quickly as he had come in.

It should have been scandalous, a man coming into the queen's chambers unannounced. It was a violation of Telmarine custom, but their very presence was a violation, so who cared?

She didn't see Caspian or Edmund until the ceremony itself. Everyone was solemn-looking as the trumpets blared music across the throne room. With Caspian and Peter to her right, Susan walked down the length of the purple carpet that led to the three thrones. Lucy walked behind her, Edmund behind Peter. They passed rows of people, Narnians and Telmarines, humans and creatures. She saw the dark heads of the centaurs bowed reverently to her as she walked by. Even her once-enemies, the Telmarine courtiers, bent at the waist in a show of respect.

Vaguely, she realized that they rather looked like the colors of the ocean. Caspian was wearing velvets of dark, almost-black purple while Peter wore a cheerful blue. Susan was the foam in a gown of white while Lucy fluttered along in layers of pale green and Edmund shone darkly in silvery gray. Like a wave, they came up to very end of the room and the people bowed and parted before them.

Susan's palms were sweaty as Aslan spoke the words, blessing her, Peter, and Caspian as the monarchs of a new Narnia.

"Rule with wisdom, justice, honor, and always, always rule with love," He charged them, and she felt the very floor tremble with the richness of His voice. "King Caspian, unite your peoples so that Narnia will remain a kingdom of peace and prosperity. King Peter and Queen Susan, bring back Narnia's glory from the days of your forefathers."

At these words, she was humbled, proud, happy, and grave all at once. They knelt, and a large gold crown, studded with jewels, was placed on Caspian's head. Susan saw him wobble a bit, as if faltering under its weight. A lesser golden circlet was placed on Peter's brow, and a delicate ring of golden flowers was put on hers.

Quickly, she stole a glance over to Peter and saw that his face was pale with seriousness, but then he broke out in a smile at something in the crowd. She followed his line of sight and saw that Lucy was holding the baby Rilian and was using one of his chubby fists to wave at Peter. Susan couldn't help but smile too.

Then, it was Lucy's and Edmund's turn and Lucy quickly passed the infant off to one of her ever-present ladies-in-waiting. They were blessed and gifted the titles of Prince and Princess of Narnia, quickly nudging Rilian down the line of succession. They all stood then, some of the beaming, some of them tight-lipped with solemnity. But all five of them broke out in happy laughter when the throne room erupted in cheers and applause.

Cries of, "Long live Queen Susan!" and "Hail the Kings and Queen of Narnia!" echoed off the walls. With on hand resting on Edmund's shoulder, Susan felt herself smiling like she had never smiled before. They were all cheering for her. In that moment, she was a Queen, and she felt like she was being married. _To Narnia_.

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As soon as the official coronation was over, everyone took off in a frenzied dash towards the ballroom. The celebration began in earnest with the start of the feast, and everyone was dancing, eating, talking, and making merry. There were no rules, no carefully regulated dances or pageants, just a gaggle of people all intent on enjoying their long-awaited festivity. Mountains of fruit, sweetmeats, roasts, and flasks of wine adorned every table. Even the Telmarines drank wine, grew hot, mingled, and danced.

Caspian found himself almost struggling to breathe with all the noise and the smells. He looked round and round, trying to take it all in, all the while nodding and smiling at everyone who came up to talk to him, always with one hand itching to straighten the heavy crown on his head. He saw the ladies of the court smiling coyly at him from behind their feathered fans, and felt himself blushing.

He danced with anyone that pressed up against him and even felt several pairs of bold, wine-stained lips kiss his cheeks and neck. He tried looking for Peter and was mildly frustrated when he couldn't find the elusive blond.

Lucy, of course, was the darling of the ball. She danced like she was born for it, her pale green skirts flaring out from her tiny waist so she looked like a flower in bloom. She flirted with all the charm of an 11-year-old girl, and ate fruit with her fingers, which Caspian knew would soon become a fashion of the court, with the pretty way Lucy did it.

He saw Susan, sitting at the edges of the room, hands in her lap. She looked pale and somewhat awkward among all the courtly grandeur. She was striking before, in her armor and chain mail, but now that she had stepped out of her clunky boots and into diamond-studded slippers, her fierce beauty seemed a bit faded. She looked no more remarkable than any other of the perfumed, gowned ladies. Caspian saw that she kept fiddling with her necklace of pearls, twisting it this way and that, as if it were uncomfortable. He saw her refuse a dozen young men who asked her to dance and not touch a drop of wine or food.

He didn't know that she thought the jewels heavy and unwieldy, and that she would never wear them again, keeping them in a velvet-lined box and only peering at them occasionally with a sort of frightened fascination. He didn't know that she refused to dance because she didn't know how, and would most likely have tripped over her dagger-heeled slippers. He didn't know that she refused to eat or drink because she couldn't stand the taste of the sickly-sweet wine and strangely, the smell of cooked meat made her queasy and want to vomit. Like with many other things, he simply assumed it was a symptom of her pride.

When he still couldn't find Peter after what seemed like an hour of searching, Caspian politely excused himself from the ballroom. Passing dozens more of the revelers on his way out, he escaped outside to the grounds.

He already somewhat knew where Peter would be, and sure enough, there was a blue velvet cloak hanging from the branches of an orange tree. And up ahead, there was Peter, sitting on a stone bench in the flower garden, munching from what appeared to be a bag of pork scratchings.

"Peter," Caspian called out softly, worried to see that his husband seemed rather somber. "Are you alright?" he asked, sitting beside the blond and putting a reassuring arm around him. "Didn't like the party?"

Peter gave him a small smile, and remained silent for a few moments before saying, "Well, it's just a bit… much, you know? With all the people there, I felt like I was suffocating."

"I know what you mean," Caspian said with a small laugh. "We can sit here for awhile if you want." Peter smiled gratefully at him. They spent some time in blissful silence, not minding the slight chill.

"I feel so nervous," Peter spoke up, leaning against Caspian's side. "For the future, I mean. What if I can't be as good as they expect me to be? I have no idea what I'm doing, unlike you."

In response, Caspian kissed Peter's smooth cheek, then turned Peter's face so that he could kiss the scarred one as well. "You will a great king," he said firmly. "And even if you're not, they will love you. _I _will love you."

Peter smiled at this. "You always know what to say," he laughed, and held out the bag to offer Caspian some.

"Um, no thanks," Caspian demurred, looking down at the greasy rinds. He watched as Peter took a handful and crumbled them up, scattering them across the pavement, then pout adorably when no birds came.

"Something's still troubling you," said Caspian, looking at Peter's slight frown. He sighed. "It's Rilian isn't it? You're worried about him… and me."

A small flinch and a wordless nod proved him right. Caspian pursed his lips, wondering what he could say.

"It's odd, really," he said finally, drawing Peter's attention once more. "The Crown Prince is usually named after the king. I wonder why my uncle decided to call his son 'Rilian?' I know he wanted his own dynasty, so another 'Miraz' would have made more sense."

"Maybe he wanted something new," Peter suggested. Caspian looked into those blue eyes and remembered how they could sparkle with love, how _warm_ Peter could be. He sighed again, knowing that he hated to see that warmth disappear.

"Well," said Caspian, "if you truly love the child, then I suppose I could learn to love him too."

The reaction was immediate. Peter's entire face lit up and he flung his arms around Caspian with a cry of joy. Laughing, Caspian kissed those rosy lips, not minding the greasy taste.

Peter laid his head on Caspian's shoulder and took his hand in a warm grasp. The crowns on their heads clinked together. "We'll always be like this, won't we?" Peter asked, almost fearfully. "No matter what happens, we'll always be able to sit like this, just the two of us, and hold hands and laugh?"

"Of course," Caspian replied, with all the conviction in the world. He kissed Peter's brow and breathed in the warm scent of his husband's hair. The sun was setting and made the whole garden glow with rosy light, so that each flower blushed with color. Peter was warm against him, and that was the most wonderful feeling of all.

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THE END

Notes: arrgh, sorry it took so long! but OMG it's finally done!!!!! (well, almost, as there's an epilogue and I'm planning a sequel) THANKS SO MUCH TO ALL MY AWESOME READERS FOR STICKING WITH THIS STORY! As always, plz plz feedback!


	34. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

* * *

Epilogue:

The sun shone on her hair and reflected back a soft, warm brown, like the color of walnut. Her scarf was a faded blue, and it was wrapped twice around that elegant neck. The ends trailed onto her lap where idle hands twisted the fraying cloth.

The former general watched the former queen as she sat on the front steps of her house, face turned slightly upwards to catch the warmth of the sun. Shifting a bit, he adjusted the burden of several wooden planks, a box of tools, and a pail of pitch in his arms.

It was a pleasant day, and there were many people out in the street. There were women carrying baskets of vegetables to the market, their tanned arms straining against the weight of cucumbers and eggplants. The soil had been fertile in the new land, and all manner of strange new crop flourished there.

Those passing by did not stop to respectfully bow to Prunaprismia, as they would have done in Narnia. It was only a few of them that gave a polite nod to their once-queen, and Glozelle mused that this lack of attention had done her much good. Without the constant pressure of being watched, the paranoia and spite that had once poisoned her heart had slowly seeped away. She was calmer now, and her skin had taken on a healthier hue. Her cheeks seemed rosier and plumper.

He cleared his throat gently, catching her attention so he wouldn't startle her. She turned and saw him, smiling a bit. She raised an arm that still trembled a bit with nervousness, and waved.

Smiling warmly in return, he walked towards her, tools and lumber clacking together noisily.

"Shall I fix your roof today, madam?"

* * *

* * *

The door to the royal bedchamber burst open as Peter and Caspian came in, laughing and embracing. The page boy, who had been napping on the rug near the fireplace, jumped up with a start. He gave a shaky bow, turning beet-red as he realized he was supposed to have been tending the fire, but the two kings didn't seem to notice him as they tumbled heavily onto the canopied bed. Seeing as there wouldn't likely be a reprimand or a box on the ears, the page boy quickly scurried out.

"I can't believe she got married!" Peter giggled drunkenly atop Caspian.

"Oof, you're heavy," replied Caspian, pushing at Peter playfully.

The wine on both their breaths was from repeated toasts to the happy couple at the wedding feast. Rather abruptly, Susan and Rynelf had declared themselves betrothed and within two months of her coronation, Susan donned her silks again for a royal marriage.

She had been rosy-cheeked and seemingly happy enough at the wedding, though a bit stiff. Glenstorm had performed the ceremony, reciting the same words he had done for Caspian and Peter. There had been a feast afterwards, and dancing after that, then a well-choreographed pageant. Susan had slipped out early, before the dancing was even done.

With a grunt, Peter rolled off of Caspian, the cloth of gold robe tangling between both their legs. "I can't believe I'm a brother-in-law," he said, sighing happily. "I think Susan'n Rynelf are very compatrible, don't you?"

Caspian's brow furrowed. "Sure." He ran a hand up Peter's thigh, and Peter giggled, wriggling a bit.

"It was a lovely wedding, too," Peter said, beaming up at the ceiling. "Susan was exquixiful, don't you think?"

"Erm, certainly," murmured Caspian, nuzzling and nibbling at Peter's neck.

"Oh, I _do _hope they'll be happy together. Especially Susan. Rynelf's my friend, but… she's my _sister_. It may be wrong of me, but I'm more concerned about her happiness than his, really. And she's not like most girls, you know. She's had a terrible time growing up, with the war and everything, and it's made her quite difficult, but not in the way you'd think girls usually are. I just hope he can make her happy. Caspian? Are you listening to me?"

Caspian stopped undressing his tipsy, rambling husband for the moment, hearing the concern in Peter's voice.

"Of course," he replied hurriedly. "Look, I know the marriage was all rather sudden, but I'm sure they care about each other very deeply. After all, they fought in the war together, didn't they?"

"But so did we... oh." Blue eyes blinked adorably.

Caspian chuckled. "I've known Rynelf for many years, and he is a good and loyal man, while Susan is a most passionate woman. I am sure they will make each other happy."

Peter sighed contentedly for a moment, seemingly reassured by Caspian's words. Then, in a flash, he grabbed his husband by the front of his clothes and pulled Caspian tumbling down on top of him.

"Right now, I want you to make _me _happy," Peter said huskily and kissed Caspian deeply. Caspian responded by moaning very happily indeed and soon, the moonlit air was filled with the sound of rustling bedclothes, soft moans, and moist kisses.

"I love you," was whispered more than once.

* * *

Rynelf anxiously smoothed down the front of his dressing gown. His palms were sweaty. He shifted his feet and stared at the closed doors to Susan's bedchamber, feeling the quickening pulse in his wrists.

"M-my Lady," he tested his voice, then cleared his throat. "No, no, that won't do. Your Majesty? My Queen?"

He licked his lips, wishing he hadn't had as much to drink at the banquet, as the wine was making him hot. Or was it just nerves?

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mind easily conjured up his fair-skinned bride, beautiful in layers of white silk. He had heard whispered appraisals of the new queen, how she wasn't half as lovely, witty, and sophisticated as the rest of the lady courtiers, but to Rynelf, Susan was the most desirable woman in Narnia. The lack of gaudy jewels at her throat or curls in her hair made her all the more regal and serene.

Rynelf felt his cheeks grow warm as he thought of her beyond those doors, perhaps lounging on her sofa, or sitting quietly by a table and illuminated by soft candlelight, or leaning back on her pillows in bed, pretty hands clasped in her lap, waiting for him.

He had known her once before, in a frenzied, lustful encounter in the woods. He could still smell the warm earth on her limbs, hear her breathing, see the rising of her bosom while she stared at up him with those blue, blue eyes.

"Susan," he whispered, his voice echoing in her empty apartments. "My love." He smiled, grasped the gold-plated doorknobs, and pushed open the doors.

He took no more than a few steps in before he stopped, confused and embarrassed.

Susan was sitting at the edge of her canopied bed, still in her silks and obviously not yet ready for bed. Her Narnian handmaiden (Dora was her name) was attending to the queen's hair with a tortoiseshell comb. Edmund stood nearby, still in his velvets and gold chains, leaning against a table and sipping from a goblet of the queen's warm cider. The dark-haired boy was way more relaxed than any man had the right to be when in a lady's private chambers, Rynelf thought.

The moment Rynelf entered, Edmund had been smiling gently at Susan, his lips parted as if in the middle of a sentence. The boy turned to look at Susan's new husband, eyes coolly appraising Rynelf from head to slipper-clad feet. Rynelf flushed and his carefully-practiced greeting died in his throat.

Edmund's lip quirked slightly, his nose turning upwards a subtle inch or two, as if to say, "Prince Consort now, are you? Well, I was prince before you. Married to her now, are you? Well, I made it to her bedchamber before you did."

"I-I didn't know… I thought you'd be alone," Rynelf stammered, turning to Susan. She had barely reacted to him coming in, sitting calmly as ever under the handmaiden's ministrations.

She looked at him a moment with those impassive blue eyes, before turning to her handmaiden with a quiet, "That'll do, dear."

Dora laid the comb down onto the bedspread, stood, bobbed a curtsy, then left for the dressing room. Edmund stayed where he was, and now they were both looking at him, as if he had intruded somehow. Rynelf had never felt more uncomfortable.

He started a little when she spoke, though she spoke softly.

"You have not knocked and I have not given you permission to enter. These are my private chambers, and to enter without permission is disrespectful to me. In the future, you shall do well to remember."

Rynelf was sure his face was on fire, and he had to bite down on his lip from saying something indignant.

"You may be my husband, but I am still the queen. There are rules between us. There will alwaysbe rules between us. Do not forget, not even for a moment, what this _arrangement _is actually for."

His eyes followed her hand as it strayed to her belly, saw her caress the flesh there.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, his throat dry. The room was plunged into a heavy, awkward silence that was broken when Dora returned carrying several pots on a wooden tray. The girl set the tray down and knelt on Susan's right. She took one of the queen's hands and started applying various creams and ointments to the skin, taking dollops from the pots with a tiny wooden spoon.

Susan said no more to Rynelf, and he took this as a rather snubbing dismissal.

"I bid your majesties a very good night," Rynelf said finally, bowing curtly and turning to go. At the threshold, just as he was turning to close the doors again, he saw Edmund move to sit on Susan's other side, picking up the discarded comb and starting to work on her hair where Dora left off.

* * *

Notes: So there it is! It's now officially done! Many thanks to everyone who read this story!! *hugs and kisses* I hope you all stay interested for the sequel I'm planning. As always, plz plz feedback and lemme know what you think!


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